


After Paris

by frais



Series: For You I Was A Flame [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Body Image, Committed Relationship, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Nonbinary Character, Other, Relationship Issues, Sequel, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frais/pseuds/frais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Paris, everything changes. AU. Sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatNatty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatNatty/gifts), [leere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leere/gifts).



> I didn't think I'd ever write a sequel, but this has ended up being longer than the orignal story oops. Posting in parts because it helps me edit things better/makes it easier to read.  
> for CatNatty and shadyfob because I know they both wanted to see more of this 'verse. :)

Pete's not sure whose idea it is to book a vacation to Europe, but Patrick has a six week break before he goes back out on the road again and they wanted to do something. It's only been five months since they moved in together, but that roughly equates to being together about a year. It's pretty much an anniversary present to themselves.

Pete's leaning his head against a stall in the airport bathroom, listening to two dudes chatter away in French as he breathes in and out, still trying to recover from the eight hour flight. He's never been a good flier, he's not sure why they picked to go so fucking far.

When he hears the talking quieten and the main doors squeak shut, he shakily exits the stall, licking at his dry lips and ignoring eye contact with his weary looking reflection in the mirror. Once recovered, he heads back out into the main part, trying to find Patrick. It doesn't take long; he finds him sitting on their luggage flicking through a tour guide. Pete takes the water bottle wedged between Patrick's thighs and takes a large gulp, feeling wired and overtired.

“We're not getting on another fucking plane until we go home,” Pete says, seeing Patrick look at him in concern before nodding his head. 

“You can relax for two weeks,” Patrick says back, using Pete's arm to hoist himself up. He keeps his fingers around Pete's wrist, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. “We can just go to the lakes next time. Or Canada.”

“It doesn't matter,” Pete shrugs his shoulder, like he hasn't spent the entire day a bag of anxious nerves, head and stomach spinning, his lungs barely filling with air the entire flight over. Patrick helped at first, hand on Pete's leg; asleep against his shoulder for two hours, but then he started to get restless and it sent Pete over the edge. “Can we just get to the hotel?”

Pete heads for the shower once Patrick's hailed a cab to their hotel. Pete spends a deal of time washing nerves and sweat from his body, using Patrick's shower gel from his wash-bag, so that he smells like something comforting and safe. 

Pete's half asleep by the time Patrick gets back from his stint in the shower, but he feels his body against him; soft lips on his neck before he's dragged into a heavy sleep. 

Pete's starving when he wakes up sometime later. They've kept the blinds shut, but there's buzzing in the streets beneath their window and when he looks over at the clock he sees that it's after one in the afternoon. He doesn't even know how long they've been in Paris now.

Pete sits up to see Patrick laying on his stomach, flicking through a magazine with his legs kicked up behind him. “Feeling any better?” Patrick asks quietly, looking up at Pete, his glasses sliding down his nose.

“Yeah, m'fucking hungry though, you wanna get something to eat?” Pete sits up, fighting off the dizziness as he pushes Patrick's glasses back into place. Patrick scrunches his nose up, but nods his head all the same, closing the magazine.

Patrick does most of the talking when they're out, fumbling around in broken French as he orders their food. Patrick holds Pete's hand over the table, looking happy and bright, despite the jet lag. 

Pete more or less destroys his food in minutes, ignoring the look Patrick gives him as he eats with more politeness. Pete's just giving his body something else to feed on; putting the flight behind him as they slowly start to come back to themselves. 

“Are you gonna go all super American tourist the entire time we're here?” Patrick asks once they're drunk on the cheapest wine off the menu. Patrick's had a failed theory that all wine is good wine in France, something they both regret believing once they're puckering and souring at every sip. Still, it doesn't really matter because he's got Patrick laughing and bumping against him as they walk back to their hotel.

“I'll try not to be too obnoxious, but yeah, you can fucking bet I'll be super touristy.” Pete nudges his arm over Patrick's shoulder, feeling Patrick's tuck against his waist, leaning heavily into his body. 

If anything, Patrick is the more embarrassing tourist. He tries to talk to any other person with an American accent and insists on ordering everything in broken French as Pete sits awkwardly opposite him. Pete just takes photos – a lot of photos – figuring Patrick's never getting him this far from the states again. 

Patrick hooks them up with tickets to a Champion's League game during their first week. Soccer's Pete’s thing and it's something Patrick ignores if he's at home when Pete's watching it, but he gets soaked into the atmosphere too; eyes hooked on the players skipping across the clipped grass, bouncing from his seat when Saint-Germain score. Pete gets a selfie of him and Patrick sitting in their seats and uploads it to instagram, deciding to read the comments later. He always finds them to be such a riot whenever he tags Patrick in them.

“We should just fucking stay here forever. You can go be a singer in some jazz bar and I'll do photography out here. No Brendon, no strings,” Pete says when the match is over. Paris won and the crowd is buzzing as they disperse from the stadium. Pete buys an overpriced scarf, throws it over Patrick's neck and brings him in for a kiss. 

Patrick laughs against Pete's mouth for a moment, hands over Pete's cheeks. “Dude, we left our dog back in Chicago, we can't stay here without him,” Patrick says, ignoring every other implausible statement in Pete's words; simply allowing himself to get caught up for once. “You should take me to dinner – somewhere fancy. To celebrate our anniversary, or whatever this is. A whole year of commitment on my part. That's a lot.”

“Somewhere with candles on the Champs-Élysées? You're really going for that cliché?” Pete pulls away with a laugh, sliding his hand into Patrick's as they head for the subway. 

“... Rose petals on the bed,” Patrick continues, “slow dancing to Marvin Gaye. You'd be fucking proposing next.”

Pete doesn't so much as think over Patrick's comment as to blurt out, “What if I did?”

“I'd say no,” Patrick says, then looks guilty when Pete freezes up. “Not because I don't want you, but that's just another legal document putting me in a box. I'm not signing a piece of paper agreeing to be your _wife_. That's not something I'd ever want, it hasn't got anything to do with how I feel about you.”

“No, I get that,” Pete nods his head, and tries not to let himself get down about it. Patrick's always been upfront about the stuff that bothers him, but Pete's always down for romance; always wanted to get married. He guesses it's just something he'll have to compromise. “Would you wear a ring if I bought you one?”

Patrick hums for a few seconds, thinking it over, before nodding his head. “But nothing fancy, and so long as you realize that's all you'd be getting.”

“Okay,” Pete nods his head, pulling Patrick closer as they make their way down to the subway. “I can deal with that. But it will be a _little_ fancy, because I'm a show off and I want people to know you belong to me.”

“Fuck that. I don't belong to you, but I will wear a ring if you got me one,” Patrick insists, and he smirks at Pete sideways, walking them faster down the steps to the station.

They end up doing all the super touristy places over the next few days. Patrick cheers embarrassingly loud when they see a man propose to his girlfriend at the top of the Eiffel Tower, but promises to kill Pete if he ever thinks about doing the same thing. Pete loves the view from the top, sliding back into photographer mode; leaving Patrick to walk around as he takes shots of the city from up high. It's not Chicago, but it's pretty fucking awesome all the same.

He takes Patrick to Disneyland and they go on stupid rides and Pete gets a photo of him and Patrick taken with Gaston and it's probably the campest picture in the world, so Pete puts it as his twitter profile pic, just to get a reaction. Patrick hates him for it.

“You're so hot to me that I'd still want to fuck you wearing one of those yellow ponchos and nothing else,” Pete says, watching a group of people walk by in aforementioned Disneyland ponchos. Patrick looks vaguely horrified, but his eyes crinkle as he loses his composure.

“I'm not wearing one,” Patrick assures Pete once he's recovered, but he buys them both one all the same – as a souvenir, he claims.

They fuck a lot too. Patrick sucks him off in three different public toilets and Pete fingers him, pushed up against a tree in some garden walk just south of the city. He shoves the fingers of his spare hand into Patrick's mouth and watches him suck them as he comes, biting down hard until Pete’s pulls them out.

They go out for dinner to a fancy restaurant on their last night. It's been an awesome time; a worthwhile dent in their savings, but they both start to miss their lives and their dog back home. Pete’s checking in with Andy dog-sitting as Patrick gets ready in the hotel room, but his stomach start to flutter pathetically when he sees Patrick change.

Partick's wearing a dress tonight. A black one that flares out a little at the waist and shimmers with silver thread beneath the light. He's even wearing stockings at Pete's insistence, sitting on the bed and tugging them up over his thighs, looking unimpressed when they start to ladder beneath his fingers. 

“Lets just order fucking room service,” Pete says, enjoying the sight of Patrick with one leg over the other, dress hitched up just enough that Pete can see the pale peach of his underwear. “I wanna dine in.”

“No fucking way,” Patrick snaps, puffing loudly when the stockings ladder further. He pulls them off and tosses them into the direction of the wastebasket, turning to Pete. “It's our last night; we can have sex later.”

“Alright,” Pete stands up, putting his fingers to Patrick's other thigh and tucking his fingers beneath the thin material, rolling it down his smooth skin and tossing it over his shoulder. “Your legs look good bare, anyway.”

Pete takes Patrick to this restaurant by the river and the waiter spends the entire night calling Patrick _Madame_ , but it doesn't bother Patrick on the surface. Pete just stares at him all night, at the blue of his eyes in the flickering candlelight and the paleness of his bare arms, naked of jewelry because Patrick doesn't like wearing it. Pete’s sentimental and he's a sap, but he keeps the sweet words tucked inside his mouth. Patrick doesn't like it when he gets like that, doesn't like the way it makes him blush and fluster.

“I am so fucking lucky, Patrick,” Pete says, keeping it classy and staying away from the sugary nature of his actual feelings for Patrick. “I'm so glad you got with the fucking program and stayed with me.”

“Yeah, well,” Patrick shrugs his shoulder, like he wants to say something else, but he can't come up with anything good. They go back to eating after that, but Patrick looks at him all softly through the night, and it makes Pete's stomach churn and churn.

Afterward they go dancing to end their vacation on a high. As they wait to get into the club Pete takes his phone out and snaps a shot of Patrick tucked under his arm. With the dress and his softly styled hair, he supposes Patrick could be mistaken for his girlfriend, but Pete doesn't care. It's never mattered to him.

“You can put it on your twitter if you like,” Patrick says, once he's seen it. Pete looks at him cautiously, aware of the kind of comments it'll attract if he does, wondering if it's worth it. 

“You sure?” Pete asks, thumb hovering over the app, waiting for Patrick to change his mind.

“Yeah,” Patrick nods his head, lifting onto his toes to kiss Pete's mouth. “Just don't read the comments to me, not even the funny ones.”

Pete agrees in the end and uploads it in seconds, scrolling through his mentions once it uploads. He keeps his word and stays quiet about every weird and wild comment he gets as they wait in line for entry.

Patrick is a terrible dancer in the best kind of way, and his moves are even more daring when he's had his fair share of tequila. Pete doesn't care, just does his own drunken shuffle when he hasn't got his tongue down Patrick's throat. Patrick's drunk and happy enough that he doesn't care about their excessive use of PDA. He's a floozy on tequila and Pete loves it.

“Bad idea to drink before the flight tomorrow,” Patrick says into Pete's mouth back at the hotel room. They're semi packed, but Patrick's a pro at living out of suitcases and he can have them finished up in no time. For now he's grinding down on top of Pete, dress unzipped at the back, his hands working Pete’s belt undone.

“I saw you checking my panties out earlier,” Patrick says, pulling away to catch his breath. “You want a closer inspection?”

“Yeah,” Pete nods his head, licking his lips as Patrick tugs his dress off and rolls onto his back beside Pete. The underwear isn't familiar to Pete; silk or some other expensive material, with white lace over the front, dipping low to the hem. 

“We're in Paris, so why not some fancy French lingerie. I got them when you were obsessing over your lens not working in the sun yesterday,” Patrick says, taking Pete’s finger and tracing it over the material. Pete can feel Patrick beneath the silk, warm and starting to dampen slightly. When he presses down harder, Patrick's hips lift from the bed.

Pete nods his head at Patrick's words, still rubbing his thumb over the rich material. “I need to take a photo.”

Patrick huffs, but obviously isn't all that bothered because he stays where he is as Pete rolls down to fetch his camera, shirt unpinned from his pants. It's not gonna be a great shot because the room's spinning a little for Pete, but he likes the way Patrick naturally opens his legs a little wider in a pose. He hopes it doesn't end up too blurry.

“I can't believe I let you do this,” Patrick slurs grumpily, pushing his lips out into a pout at the camera as Pete grabs a few more shots. 

“'kay I'm done,” Pete says, putting the camera down, falling down on top of Patrick, straddling his body. “I love you, you're crazy for staying with me, but fuck you're so hot.”

Patrick face is already red from the booze, but he blushes a littler harder, losing all sense of composure as he flails beneath Pete, his hands coming up to Pete's face. “Those photos stay in your private collection. Your very big private collection.”

“No one else seeing them, believe me.” Pete collapses on top of Patrick, feeling him down, silk and warm skin. “Fucking peach panties. Fucking amazing.”

Patrick pushes at Pete until he rolls over and then he's sitting over Pete's crotch. “You should know these cost me a lot of money. So.”

“Guess you'll have to go out on tour some more then,” Pete says, hands to Patrick's hips. He dips his thumbs into the waistband, feeling hot skin that's a little damp. “Just so you can buy more and more.”

“You like it then?” Patrick says quietly. “It's surreal. I'm very drunk in Paris, sitting on a man I love, wearing French knickers that cost more than our dinner tonight. I feel pretty wild.”

Pete laughs, dizzy enough that he needs to shut his eyes. He doesn't have anything to say and he could stay like this until he falls asleep, but soon enough he feels Patrick tugging his pants open and forcing his boxers down.

They fuck like that: Patrick grinding down on top of Pete, cunt wet and clenching Pete, brand new underwear pushed to the side. They're clumsy and Patrick keeps leaning down and knocking their foreheads together, and Pete feels him laugh from the way he's tightening on his cock, but it's the best he's felt in a long time, and he doesn't want it to end. Pete stares up in awe, because this is his. He's going to fuck it up, probably, or Patrick will, but he sort of figures it'll be worth it all the same.

It all seems worth the hangover the next morning, and he's still in a sex-happy daze as they board the plane home, or maybe it's just his anxiety meds kicking in earlier. 

 

“It's always the worst when you first leave again,” Pete says to Patrick on his last night at home before another week and a half away. Pete never even asks where exactly Patrick's heading because it's always somewhere different, and he can't keep up. He presses his face into Patrick's chest as they sprawl on the couch, and rubs his nose against the material of Patrick's cotton shirt for a while, relaxing when he feels Patrick's hands over his shoulders, keeping him close. It was nice coming back to their apartment and back to their dog, but he keeps thinking back on their trip and wondering if anything will ever top it. 

“It's only a few weeks and then I'll be back again, for like a month,” Patrick says softly, Pete feels the rumble from his chest as he speaks. 

Pete nods his head, feeling Patrick's hands slide to his hair, playing with it between his fingers. “Work will keep me busy.” Pete lifts up onto his arms, leaning up to kiss at Patrick's mouth. He settles into it, feeling Patrick's own hands slide down from his hair to curve over Pete's cheeks as his tongue slides out, deepening the kiss.

 

“You wouldn't do this to me,” Patrick says down the phone to Pete a few days after he leaves. It's a media day, Pete realizes, when he hears Patrick's voice come out weakly, like he's spent the last hour arguing his point with people that won't listen. “I only want you to shoot me from now on.”

“I don't do editorials anymore. What happened?” Pete already knows. Patrick's willing to talk about his gender to a point in set interviews, but he doesn't like talking about himself in general, and Pete's seen how the ratio of questions about his music against his gender has shifted ever since he came out. It's frustrating for him to see, in how down Patrick gets about it. Pete can't figure out why it's such a big deal for everyone, when it's something he's always accepted.

“The interview was fine, but the shoot...urgh. Why do they either want me to start fucking packing when I'm in a suit or to dress me up in some fancy fucking dress. Why can't I just be me?”

“Because people don't get it. Which one is it today?”

“It's a fairytale based shoot, because you know, putting me in a giant fucking dress shows whatever adversity I've apparently overcome.” Patrick's voice takes on a stroppy tone that Pete understands. “Why can't you be the only one to shoot me now?”

“Uh, because I hate magazine shoots too. Can't you get your manager to sort things out beforehand? Say you'll only wear your own clothes, or try and talk to the director before the shoot to come up with ideas together.” Pete rubs at his forehead, keeping his eye on Brendon out front from the back office doorway.

“I hate photoshoots, why do I even need them?” Patrick ignores Pete's last comment, and goes back to whining again. “Everyone knows what I look like, why do I need to do more?”

“I'm not explaining the basic ideology of a press campaign to you, Patrick. What's the basic idea they're going for? Mix your two looks together, let them put you in a dress but rough it up, style your hair the way you want and use a different backdrop. Make sure you don't book in with them again.” 

“Rags to riches Cinderella, which has nothing to do with me. But uh, I could work with what you said. Maybe...maybe I wouldn't have to wear a gown or anything...” Patrick's hesitating and Pete grimaces because he's got an appointment in five minutes and he doesn't want to push his loyalties in either direction. 

“Man, Patrick. Alright, let me think. You know I'm not even a director, I just take the fucking photos.” Pete puts his fingers to his temple and tries to think about it. “I don't know how much time you have, but go through the rack of clothes and look for the dingiest dress and make wardrobe dirty it up some more...or wear your underwear beneath your own coat. Style your face and hair however you want, so long as it contrasts with the outfit. Then, I don't know...that's like Cinderella caught between looking like a queen and a servant girl. If it was me, I'd get you to look like a cross between Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, that suits you more than any princess thing. Try and pitch that to them instead.”

“That's why you should be the one shooting me. You know what works,” Patrick says, but then when he hears Pete groan he backtracks. “Sorry, I know we agreed you wouldn't. It's better than what they wanted. I guess I'll take it to them and hope they run with it.” Pete nods his head, and doesn't say any of things that they both know. Since Patrick's come out, people have started to feminize him more; it's little things, but they build up. Patrick doesn't read reviews, but Pete does, and they're nearly always accompanied with a photo of him in a skirt on stage, never the suits that he wore for years before. Bring up the fact he's dating a guy like it even matters, or the way he moves around the stage. It sucks, but Pete can't see what they can do to change it. 

Pete has to hang up when he sees his appointment walk through the door, but Patrick sounds happy with their plan, enough that Pete doesn't feel like a dick for ending the call so quickly. Patrick emails him the photos they pick a few days later, and it's not exactly what Pete would've gone for, but it's better than the girlish pink and diamonds that was originally planned.

 

Patrick comes home from the tour a few lonely weeks later barely speaking. He's upset about something, but Pete knows you just have to let him sulk it out until he's ready to talk.

Pete watches TV from the bed, Bowie curled up one side of him, long snout resting on Pete's chest. Patrick's the other side, fingers wrapped tight to Pete's bicep, face pressed into the pillow. Patrick gets less tight and wound up as the minutes tick on. He lays quiet and silent until he's suddenly wriggling closer, sliding up under Pete's arm, fingers stroking Bowie's fur. 

“You know, I think I'm just gonna call my next album he/him,” Patrick says eventually, nose almost touching the dog's. “I think I've made it clear that those are the pronouns I like. It's not up for fucking debate.”

“What makes you think otherwise?” Pete asks, he curves his hand over Patrick's shoulders to stroke at his hair. He's overheating with Patrick and the dog nearly in top of him, but it's cozy, and he's missed Patrick's body in the weeks he's been gone.

“People keep linking me to discussions about it. It's good that people are talking about gender, but I don't want people questioning why I decided on those pronouns, or why I identify the way I do. It's nobody's business.” Patrick's face is turning red as he spills his thoughts. Pete never really knows what to say when they talk about it, because he doesn't understand. He's tried a few times to talk about it online, but it caught them a lot of heat, and Patrick really hates it when he talks about them personally online, anyway.

“I know it sucks,” Pete says, even if he doesn't really _know_. For as long as Pete's known him, Patrick been comfortable with his body and the way he sees himself, but he's never liked talking about it, doesn't want to make it a big deal. Pete thinks the problem's based mostly in the fact that Patrick hates labels almost as much as he hates confrontation so he never tells anyone else how much it bothers him. “I think people forget you're a real person sometimes.”

“When I see everyone talking about it it makes me wish I'd never said anything. I chose it because the name felt like who I wanted to be. I didn't like anything about the person I was supposed to be, but I liked Patrick.” Patrick groans after he finishes talking, hot air puffing against Pete’s shoulder. “I wish we were in Paris again.”

“Yeah,” Pete nods. There's been a few things recently. As Patrick's popularity has increased more people want to know about him, all about him, and it's got to the point recently where Patrick's worked himself up into a state after hearing of people snooping around looking for his birth name. Pete thinks it's all kinds of gross that people go looking for that shit, but he doesn't think they can do anything to stop it. He knows Patrick's happier now that he's upfront about who he is with everyone, but it's hard, too. 

“You've ruined me,” Patrick says instead, breaking Pete’s thoughts. “You're so cool with it that I forget it's a big deal for everyone else.”

“Totally,” Pete agrees. “ I think of you as the best fucking thing, so if I was with someone like me-- maybe it'd bore me. I dunno. Am I fetishizing you?” 

“Dunno,” Patrick says, looking up as Bowie, no longer comfortable, jumps off the bed and slides from their bedroom. “I like it though, you should do it more.”

Patrick slides a thigh over Pete's, suitably cheered up as his hand palms Pete's crotch. Pete lets Patrick pull him from his clothes until he has Patrick wrapping tight fingers around his cock as he sucks on the head. Pete strokes his fingers through Patrick's hair, pushing it back so he can see his hollowed cheeks, the soft lidded look of his eyes as he takes Pete deeper.

Patrick pulls off when Pete starts to feel his orgasm building, and he tugs on Patrick's hair in irate frustration, groaning harder when Patrick flashes his teeth down the side of Pete's dick.

“I was so ready to come then,” Pete says when Patrick slides back up the bed, smiling with lips swollen and pink. “Wanted to come with my dick in your mouth.” 

“You always want that.” Patrick rolls his eyes, but Pete stops whining when he sees Patrick shimmying from his clothes. Patrick licks his fingers and then presses them between his legs, rubbing a few times. “Figured you'd want to fuck me more. How long's it been now?”

“Weeks. You're shitty at phone sex,” Pete admits, winking when Patrick glares at him. He pushes his hips up the moment Patrick straddles him, but when Pete slides inside Patrick frowns and sits up onto his knees, so he's sitting just over Pete's cock, the very tip touching his cunt. "Seriously?" 

Patrick shrugs, and then sinks down, stopping the teasing. Patrick shivers and then groans out when Pete's hands squeezes at his hips. “I was gonna wear my strap on and try and fuck you like that, but I need this more. Actually--” Patrick stops moving and looks at Pete, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “I need... Could you?”

“Need me to fuck you?” Pete asks because Patrick's rarely soft and compliant during sex and sometimes he kind of likes being a little bit in control. Patrick nods his head, pulling off from Pete's dick and rolling onto his back. 

Pete takes a breath, touching his dick and feeling Patrick's slick over it before looking at where Patrick's propped up on his back, legs spread and hitched up. Pete slides between them, guiding himself slowly into Patrick. 

“I want it slow,” Patrick demands and Pete nods, wishing he hadn't had such a killer blow job because he's gonna have to work on his stamina to make this last. The last thing he wants is Patrick bitching at him for the next week about not lasting long enough. 

Patrick makes a soft noise as Pete thrusts slow, his back arching and his legs sliding up. Pete places his hands over Patrick's cheeks as he jacks his hips back and forward, focusing on the little sounds Patrick gives. 

Pete moves one hand away from Patrick's face, sliding it over Patrick's thigh, squeezing his ass and using the leverage to fuck Patrick a little deeper, until their bodies lay flat together, chest to chest. Patrick slides his hands up over his head to wrap his fingers around the headboard, his hips still moving with Pete's, his legs hooking to Pete's calves. 

Patrick starts shifting his hips harder, but Pete pulls back, “You wanted me to fuck you, now let me.” Pete sits up so he's on his knees, dick still buried inside Patrick, and he takes his legs, pushing them further toward Patrick's chest and watching him arch tighter, fingers clenching at the headboard.

Pete slides a hand to Patrick's chest, spreading it out until the tips of his fingers touch Patrick's nipples. He rolls his hips slowly, pushing into Patrick all the way, pushing down on his lower stomach with his spare hand and seeing how Patrick's eyes roll right to the back of his head at the feeling.

He gets Patrick to come like that, body tight and wired, light hairs standing up with goosepimples as he goes taut before shivering and loosening up in Pete's arms. Pete fucks him through it, coming himself moments later. 

“That was alright,” Patrick says, wincing as he lifts his arms back down to his sides. Pete goes to roll away, but Patrick shakes his head and slides arms over him. “It was nice, I guess.”

“Just nice?” Pete asks, finding his place against Patrick, face pressing into his sweaty neck, not caring that Patrick's being kind of a dick right now. 

“I still feel shitty, that's all,” Patrick mumbles. “I thought sex would help, but it didn't.” Pete nods against his neck, but doesn't say anything. He thought it was pretty good, if he's being honest.

Five minutes later Pete’s phone is ringing and so Patrick picks it up, pushing Pete off him as he rolls onto his knees. Pete stares up at Patrick in alarm as he starts to talk sweetly to Pete's mom, holding Pete’s shirt between his legs as gravity does it's work. Patrick hands the phone over after a minute or so of small talk before hopping from the bed. Pete still doesn't quite know how to talk to his mom as he watches Patrick walk naked from the bedroom and to the shower.

 

Patrick's still groggy a few days after he comes off tour for the second to last time. It's been pretty grueling recently, he's hardly at home before he's on the road again. Pete can see how run down Patrick is; he shuffles sleepily from the bed to the couch, barely saying anything. He's always bounced back after a few days before and Pete jokes that maybe he's getting old, but Patrick just smiles tightly, before seeing Pete off at the door with a kiss. 

Brendon invites Pete out for drinks that night, and Pete thinks about it before shaking his head. He just wants to wrap himself up with Patrick, so he goes about his day same as always, working through his bookings until they close up. He makes brief small talk about going out for dinner next week before he's locking up and going home.

Pete picks up Thai take-out on the way back to the apartment, and is greeted by Bowie at the door, the snuffly dog trying to shove his snout into the food. Pete’s hoping Patrick will be more social than the previous nights, but he's not holding out much hope.

“Patrick?” Pete calls, dropping the food down onto the island and crouching down to let their slobbering dog smooch all over his face. Patrick comes out of the bedroom, hair tousled and in sweat pants and a hoodie of Pete's, looking awful. “You _still_ tired?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, walking over and sliding his arms around Pete, tucking his face to Pete's neck. Pete frowns, hand sliding to the back of Patrick's head, starting to worry. 

“You still look exhausted, maybe you need to take some vitamins or something. Maybe up your iron intake?” Pete pulls Patrick away from him gently, seeing his pasty skin and dark circles beneath his eyes. 

“I just need to sleep it off, I'm fine.” Patrick stands straighter, shaking off the sleepy weariness of his body and going over to the food. He pulls the trays from the bag and starts to set them out on the island, dutifully ignoring Pete’s concern. “Good day at work?”

Pete shrugs, starting to explain some of the bookings. They eat in front of the TV, Patrick not really eating much. Pete doesn't nag about it, knows Patrick's moods when they're like this. It's best just to let him be quiet, let him take whatever comfort from Pete that he needs until he's ready to face the world again. 

“Can we go back to bed?” Patrick asks softly, when Pete's finished Patrick's leftovers too. Pete frowns but nods, letting Patrick take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. Patrick takes his sweats off, leaving the sweatshirt on as he crawls into the bed, curling up against Pete. 

“Are you sad?” Pete asks. A few times Patrick's moods dropped low for no apparent reason that Pete can see. It's not quite a depression, Patrick says it just happens sometimes, that Pete's able to pull him out of it when other people haven't been able to. 

“Not sad, just tired. Really fucking tired,” Patrick says against Pete's chest. Pete looks down, sees the way Patrick's eyes have already drooped shut, hand against Pete's collarbone. 

Pete waits until Patrick's asleep again, holding him close and trying not to worry about anything that's going on in Patrick's head right now. It's probably post tour blues. When Patrick's been out for a good fifteen minutes, Pete let's him roll away, mumbling softly to himself as he leaves the bedroom.

Pete clears the take-out up, opening the trash bag to dump it all in there before hefting it outside. Pete tugs the draw string open, eyes sliding dismissively at first to a purple and white box, before he catches the writing on the side of the box. His heart skips for a moment and he scans the trash with his eyes, but he can't see any used tests on the surface. Pete ties the bag up, trying to ignore the sirens flaring in his head. They're careful; Patrick's on birth control. It shouldn't even be an issue. Patrick _would've_ told him.

Pete takes the trash out, and then sits on the floor with Bowie, fussing their stupid dog. He waits until the dog is puffing with excitement, flopped over in his dog-bed, before Pete heads back to their bedroom, heart thrumming; his brain unable to focus. 

Patrick's still asleep when Pete enters, but he stirs when Pete climbs back into the bed with him. He rubs at his eyes and huffs. Pete just stares at him, trying to get the truth from his face, but coming up with nothing. 

“Was it positive?” Pete asks, seeing the way Patrick immediately wakes and tenses, rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “You took a test, right? Was it positive?”

“Yes,” Patrick whispers up at the ceiling. "I hit two weeks late last Monday, so I took a test on tour last week. I didn't want to believe it, so I took another one yesterday and it was positive.”

Pete tries to take it all in, before deciding that he probably shouldn't. He shouldn't let himself think anything about his own feelings until he knows Patrick's. He tries to zone in on the rational side of his brain and keep the hysterics at bay. “Were you gonna tell me?”

“Of course.” Patrick looks over at Pete, tired eyes in a pinched face. “I just needed to think about it alone. I know I don't always take the pill at the same time, but I didn't think it'd be an issue. Fuck my fucking fertility, man.”

“Do you want me to call a clinic?” Pete asks, thinking he's asking the right thing, but he sees Patrick tense up beside him, lifting his hands from his face to stare at Pete.

“Is that what you want?” he asks quietly, rolling over onto his side to stare at Pete. He still looks exhausted, even after at least ten hours of sleep the night before and however long he's slept while Pete's been at work.

“I'm trying not to think about what I want. I just figured you wouldn't want to go there again, not when we have other options.” Pete puts a hand to Patrick's cheek, thumb sliding over his cheekbone, rubbing the pad in circular motions. 

"I don't know what I want to do yet. I've got time to think about it, right?" Patrick says and Pete nods. 

“That's fine. Whatever you want to do, I'm not going anywhere. Either way,” Pete assures and Patrick stares at him flatly like he's trying to figure out if he's being truthful or not. 

Patrick curls up against him again, nodding his head. “I kept meaning to switch over to the depo shot, but I kept putting it off.”

“That's alright. It's a bit late now, right?” Pete jokes and Patrick looks at him, like he can't quite believe Pete's being serious before he laughs, curling his fingers over Pete's arm. Pete doesn't sleep that night, not as Patrick falls in and out of sleep against him. It's a symptom, Pete guesses. He hasn't a fucking clue.

Patrick's up and dressed when Pete's getting ready for work the next morning; sitting hunched up over his laptop. Pete kisses his cheek, trying to assess his mood. Patrick smiles at him, tired but loose, and it relaxes Pete. 

“Have a good day, babe,” Patrick says and Pete nods, giving him one last look before leaving the house. 

When he gets back that night, Patrick seems frazzled; Bowie looking fed up as he sits at Patrick's feet. Pete leans down and kisses Patrick on the nose, scratching their dog's head lightly and getting a licked wrist in return. 

“I've made my mind up,” Patrick says and Pete blinks. He's glad for it, he wants Patrick to take his time, but the longer it's stretched out, the harder it will be for him to sit on this information and not think about it.

“ _And?_ ”

“We've barely been together a year, and we argue about everything even when we're happy, and my career is in a pretty good place right now. I think we work well as a couple, I'm not sure if adding a baby is a good thing or not,” Patrick starts, carefully watching Pete's face as he continues. “But I was planning on taking a small break before I start recording the next record and we have talked about kids. This isn't the way I wanted to do it and I think this is going to be really fucking hard, but I'm willing to try.”

“...Are you keeping the baby?” Pete says, and he realizes it's the first time he's even said _baby_ out loud, he hasn't allowed himself to think about how there's a part of them both growing inside of Patrick. 

“Yeah, if that's what you want. Obviously it's your decision too,” Patrick says quietly and Pete nods his head. He keeps on nodding, unsure if he's able to stop. When Patrick's fingers curl to the base of his neck, Pete finally stops and he licks his lips. “Yeah. I'd like to keep it.”

“Alright,” Patrick asserts, smiling at Pete before his face turns serious. “I need you to promise me that you'll stick with me because this is really fucking scary and I'm worried about how it's going to make me feel. I feel like I'm going to get reduced to nothing more than a pregnant woman, and that's not what I am. You know it's not. It's bad enough already, with how people perceive me these days.”

“You're a pregnant Patrick,” Pete says instead and Patrick laughs breathless, pulling Pete in for a hard kiss. He's frantic and Pete can feel the nerves in the tightness of his body. He doesn't have it in him to calm Patrick down though, he feels the same.

"Just because I have organs in my body capable of creating a baby, it doesn't mean I'm a woman. No more than I'm a man. I'm neither and I want to fucking stay that way... I'm just renting them out for a few months.” Patrick starts to says, like he's reminding himself of this fact. Pete nods along, feeling lightheaded with nerves.

“Exactly,” Pete says, wondering how tough this will be. He gets things right most of the time with Patrick, but it's something he doesn't always understand and he's trying to learn. "And then we have a baby at the end of it." 

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, “and then I'm getting the fucking depo shot.” He crawls over to Pete, resting his head briefly against his shoulder. “By the time this kid comes out we'll have only been together eighteen months,” Patrick says, like it's a big deal. Pete doesn't really care about that, it's been serious ever since Patrick admitted he loved Pete, back at Pete's parents' house.

“We'll figure it out,” Pete bullshits, pulling Patrick closer again and kissing his soft mouth. Patrick goes with it, sleepy still, but warm and open.

 

Pete calls in sick the next day, to which Brendon just laughs, sussing out his own truths from Pete’s lie. Pete wants to spend it with Patrick, wants him to be okay with this. When he doesn't think Pete's looking, he's like a deer in fucking headlights, ready to flee at any moment.

“I'm gonna call my doctor at some point, she's been with me through pretty much everything and I'm gonna see if she can put me in touch with a doc that works with people like me. I don't want to be made to feel uncomfortable with a normal one,” Patrick says to Pete, pacing the apartment. Pete stares up at him from the couch, trying not to get annoyed at the constant pacing. “I'll see if I can book an appointment before I go back out on the road, but that's just two weeks and then I'm done.”

“I don't want you going back out again,” Pete says, looking away when Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“Why not? It's just a few weeks, then it'll just be you and I - just the two of us.” Patrick's hands land on his hips, staring Pete out. Pete shrugs, not taking the bait this time.

“Then a baby,” Pete says. He keeps thinking about it; trying to imagine them both as parents, but he can't quite see it. They need a crash course in babies, in parenting. He's not sure if either of them have the patience for it. “Morning sickness might kick in soon. You really want that happening on the road?” 

Patrick's face squashes up. “Yeah, I fucking know. But it won't be for long. I'm sure it'll be fine.”

Patrick schedules an appointment with an obstetrician his doctor puts him in contact with. When he tells Pete about it, Pete immediately starts to say something about taking the morning off work, but Patrick's shaking his head.

“Let me go to this one alone,” he says softly. Pete raises an eyebrow and watches Patrick purse his lips, scratching the side of his head. “I just need to figure out if they're someone I feel comfortable with.”

“You got some questions?” Pete asks and Patrick nods. 

“Obviously I wanna involve you as much as I can, but I need to talk to someone that understands, that won't just take my side,” Patrick smiles at Pete, and he understands at that, why Patrick needs to do it alone. He swallows any bitterness threatening to spill out.

“As long as you keep me informed about everything, everything about the baby and about how you're feeling,” Pete shrugs, trying to fight the disappointment. “I wanna be there when we see it though.”

“Once I find a doctor I feel comfortable with you can come to every fucking appointment I have,” Patrick promises, “but this time I want to do it alone.”

“Alright,” Pete nods, bringing Patrick in for a tight hug, pressing his face down to Patrick's shoulder and breathing him in.

Patrick comes back from the doctor's with a script for prenatal vitamins and a surprisingly good mood. “I liked her,” Patrick tells Pete, coming into the apartment. “She says she has some parents we can meet if we want, and some resources on non-confirming pregnancies.”

Pete nods his head. “Maybe it'd be good to meet other people.”

“Maybe in the future,” Patrick agrees. He slides his arms over Pete's shoulders, pressing their hips together. “Right now I just want it to be us getting used to the news. Not anyone else.”

“Same.” Pete kisses Patrick, slides his arms down his back before hitching his hands beneath Patrick's thighs and lifting him up. He stumbles over to the table, dropping Patrick down onto it, kissing at his mouth and jaw as Patrick squirms beneath his touch, hands tugging at Pete’s shirt and pulling it off. Pete gives him another wet kiss before he's taking a leap and jumping up onto the table with him.

 

Brendon keeps nagging about going out with Patrick and Pete before Patrick goes back on tour again, so they end up with Brendon and his new girlfriend, Sarah, at a bar close to Pete’s studio. Pete sits there, drinking his beer quietly and smiling at Sarah, as Brendon grills Patrick.

“So is it like a Kinsey scale thing? Female one end and dude at another?” Brendon leans forward, and Patrick smiles at him, patient in ways Pete could never be. He looks tired still, but he's attempted to hide it with styled hair and sharp dress pants.

“Maybe for some people, not for me. I don't think of myself as either a dude or a chick, there isn't a Kinsey scale that works for me,” Patrick shrugs his shoulder, taking a sip of his coke. He's not thrilled about spending the next few months without the comfort of alcohol, telling Pete as much the night before. “I didn't like being a girl, and being a boy felt just as uncomfortable. I don't really like to label myself as anything in particular.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Dude, shut up,” Pete cuts in, seeing Brendon shut his mouth and Patrick turn his up into a small smile. “We didn't come out to listen to you play twenty-one fucking questions about Patrick _again_. We did this last time.”

“It's fine,” Patrick says, winking at Brendon. “I know you mean well, so it's cool.”

“I'm just interested!” Brendon holds his hands up in defeat. “I didn't mean to pry so hard. It's just kinda fascinating.”

Patrick swiftly turns the conversation to Sarah, who answers loud and willingly, perhaps trying to stop Brendon from opening his mouth any further. Pete's found over the past few months that he doesn't actually dislike Brendon all that much, he just doesn't like socializing with him unless he has to. He's a bit too much of something that Pete can't handle.

“I don't understand why you get upset when people talk about you on the internet but you're absolutely fine with the shit Brendon says,” Pete says to Patrick once they leave the bar. Patrick laughs at him, thumb rubbing over Pete's knuckles.

“Because I know Brendon, and I know he's only curious. I don't know how to react to strangers writing long essays without having met me, it just makes me uncomfortable. It's two different things. Plus, he's not making wild accusations about why I chose the name Patrick,” Patrick says, suggesting that he's still irked by what's been going on in cyberspace. Pete's told him to stop looking for that shit, but he never listens.

“I wasn't like that, it doesn't bother me what you are. Or what you go by.” Pete likes that about himself. Likes that he was so chill when everyone else treats it like some huge deal. They only really talk about it when someone else has upset Patrick over it.

“I know.” Patrick squeezes his hand. “You were more worried I was turning you down than my lack of dick.”

“Flawless priorities, if you asking me,” Pete says, smiling when Patrick laughs at him, head lolling forward. “I'm so free thinking.”

“You're just easy, but it's all good with me.” Patrick winks at Pete, soft mouth teased up into a little smirk as they walk further down the road, not stopping until they reach home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback :)

They’re both in a quiet mood when Patrick starts packing for tour a few days later. Bowie’s whining from the bed, aware that when Patrick’s suitcases come out it means weeks alone with Pete again.

“This will be the last time I tour before I have a kid... It's weird.” Patrick’s nose scrunches up as he turns to Pete. He's got piles of clothes laid out on the bed, and he's halfway through folding them into a suitcase, but he's stopped now to stare down at his feet.

“Yeah. I’m still not sure if I’ve got my head around it yet,” Pete confesses. He sees Patrick nod his head in agreement, before going back to the dresser drawers to tuck more clothing away.

Pete heads over to Patrick's bedside table, pulling open the drawers to grab his prenatal vitamins. He's no good at taking them on his own initiative, only bothering when Pete tells him to, so he figures it's better to shove them into Patrick's hand to force the issue, to make sure he packs them.

“I didn't know you were on iron supplements,” Pete says, looking down and reading the label. The rest are just regular prenatal vitamins; ones that Pete’s seen Patrick swallow on occasion, but not this bottle.

“Yeah...” Patrick's voice comes out on a mumble, but he goes over to where Pete’s standing and plucks them from his hand. “The doctor said I was anemic, it's not a big deal.”

“Shouldn't I have known that?” Pete stares at him. “Why are you always hiding these things from me?”

“It's not a big deal, Pete.” Patrick's frowning, his face grumpy as his shoulders invert, arms crossing over his chest. Pete doesn't touch him, just sighs heavily, dropping back down to the bed.

“You didn't tell me you were pregnant for nearly two weeks. Would I even know if I hadn't found the box?”

“It's fairly likely you'd have worked it out in a few months.” Patrick rolls his eyes, but then he takes a breath, putting a hand over Pete’s mouth when he goes to argue. “I didn't want to make it a big deal. I need to keep it low-key right now, I need it not to be the only fucking thing we talk about.”

“I should still know if you're sick or not,” Pete says, not happy, but not biting because this is their last night and they'll be fucked if they part on bad terms. He’s trying to keep them level, trying to keep them happy even if he’s not sure whether they are or not. They’re pretty fucking terrified, that’s all he knows.

“I need to sort my diet out when I come off tour, then I'll get better. I don't get enough iron anyway, I think it's getting sapped quicker because of the whole baby-thing.” Patrick moves his hand away from Pete’s mouth, sliding it into his own hair. “I'm more worried about getting morning sickness. I don't want to have to deal with that. I don't want anyone knowing yet. How am I supposed to keep it from all the guys?”

“You're closest to Matt, right? I think you should tell him, just so that there's someone that knows, that can look after you,” Pete starts to say. He likes Rubano the most out of Patrick's band, though he hasn't spent much time with any of them. That's a different Patrick, really. That's not the one that comes home to him, so he stays away.

“I don't need looking after,” Patrick says, looking pissed that Pete’s even suggested such. “I can handle things myself.”

“Then he can make excuses for when you're puking your guts up every morning. You think he'd take the news okay?” Pete’s terrified of that part. They've no plans to tell anyone officially until Patrick's at twelve weeks, but past that point he doesn't know what they're going to do.

“I wouldn't have them in my band if I didn't think I could trust them, but it might not even come to that,” Patrick asserts, but he looks worried. “This could ruin my career, Pete.”

Pete doesn't want to say it, because now that they're adjusted he wants the kid, but still, he takes a breath and says, “I can book you an appointment at a clinic if you really don't see this working.”

“No, I want this,” Patrick says, not really sounding like it. “I _think_ I want this, so I'm gonna do it.”

“I couldn't do adoption,” Pete admits softly. “I don't want to push you in any direction, but I don't think I could give it up at that point. We need to be clear on that.”

“Raising a kid isn't what's scaring me. It's the next seven months. Adoption doesn't come into it, just the baby growing part.” Patrick looks at Pete before sucking in a nervous breath. “Can you go back to shouting at me for not taking my tablets instead of this?”

“Nah, but I'll make you something to eat.” Pete stands up to give Patrick some time alone to pack. “Something iron-y. I'll Google something.” Pete hears Patrick laugh softly as he leaves the room.

It turns out that they don't really have any food that's particularly healthy, so Pete goes for a quick spin around Whole Foods, checking his phone for recipe ideas as he dumps stuff into the cart. He's half aware that Patrick won't be around for the next few weeks, and so this stuff with sit in the refrigerator until Pete throws the then green sludge out, but he's trying to occupy himself instead of worrying about Patrick.

When he gets back, Patrick's on the phone sorting out his travel details for the next day, so Pete leaves him to it as he sorts out cooking some sort of fish and green veg stiry-fry thing. Patrick flits around from being vegan to vegetarian to an all-out meat eater, the latter being his current state of mind.

“There's a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator, drink it,” Pete says to Patrick when he's off the phone. Patrick squeezes him around his middle, careful of the stove in front of Pete as he cuddles from behind.

“I swear I'll stop hiding things from you,” Patrick says softly, “I'll call you every night and tell you five facts about my day.”

“No, you won't,” Pete laughs, turning and lifting his arm so that Patrick can slide beneath it. “But I appreciate the lie. I just want to make sure you're alright.”

“I'm fine.” Patrick squeezes Pete tighter. “Really, I'm fine. I think I'm going to try and ignore it until I come off tour. Then when I get back I can zone in on baby-mode.”

Pete’s not sure how Patrick can sort things out like that because right now it's a constant red hazard behind his own eyes and he's not the one carrying it. But he isn't Patrick and they rarely see things the same way, so maybe he's just going to have to deal with this.

“Go drink the OJ, Rick. It's good for iron, the internet told me.” Pete waits until Patrick skips away to grab the drink before going back to flipping his shredded vegetables.

 

Pete cleans out the spare room while Patrick's away. They've been using it as a dumping ground for all the shit they haven't unpacked yet, but Pete and Bowie start to sort through it. It still sometimes feels a little like _this is Patrick's stuff_ and _these are Pete's,_ but they're getting better about blurring the lines. Pete gets caught up with his boxes of old film and notebooks of lyrics from Patrick, flicking through them all with warped nostalgia and interest.

Once he's moved on from those, he sees another box of photos. A quick peek shows family photos of Patrick as a kid, so he puts them back. That's Patrick's private shit and Pete honestly doesn't care to know about it until the day Patrick's comfortable showing him.

He tucks the boxes to Patrick's side of the bed and goes back to clearing music equipment and old clothes. He boxes up his own stuff and sends it down to a thrift shop. It's premature, but he's so freaked out about how there'll be a baby inhabiting this space in seven or so months. Patrick may be perfectly fine ignoring the fact that they're having a kid, but it's all that's buzzing around Pete's mind.

Patrick is moaning down his tablet the next night. Pete can see he looks pasty in the darkness of the hotel room and he winces in sympathy, wishing he could be there – hoping Patrick doesn't hate him too much for doing this.

“Morning sickness has kicked in, I guess,” Patrick says, “I was hoping it'd be too late for it to hit now.”

“Is it just mornings?” Pete asks because he's been reading up at work that it can be longer that that. Between meeting clients he's scrolling through sites about the first trimester and freaking out silently. “Are you taking your iron tablets?”

“Usually just mornings, every night I just hope I don't puke it all out on stage.” Patrick shuts his eyes, looking dopey and warm, if a little green. “Those tablets give me heartburn so I don't like taking them.”

“You gotta take 'em, or eat better on the road. Keep your fluids up, try and sleep tonight,” Pete says, remembering what the Internet says. “Oh and _crackers._ Eat lots of crackers if you can't keep anything else down.”

Patrick smiles at him, leaning away from the screen before waving a packet of crackers at the camera. Pete laughs, cuddling up on the couch with Bowie and wishing he wasn't alone right now.

“Wanna come home,” Patrick says, tucking his fingers to his face as he lays back on the bed. He looks young when he's asleep; he looks young anyway, but there's an innocence when he's in bed. “Can you stay online until I fall asleep?”

Pete smiles and nods his head. It's taken a lot to gain Patrick's trust, to have him want Pete in all the ways Pete wants him, and every time he says something to show how much he needs Pete, it makes him a little light-headed. Pete’s always been soft like that; he's always looking for validation that this is working both ways.

“Yeah, sure. I'd sing you to sleep too, but I wouldn't want to deafen you mid-tour.” Patrick laughs, but he's asleep quickly after that. Pete watches him for a time, before closing the laptop and heading to bed.

They talk everyday and Pete browses the Internet every night scouring for photos of Patrick on tour. He doesn't look any different, not this early, but he wears Pete's lens necklace every night on stage. Sometimes with suits, sometimes with weird asymmetrical dresses. All of Patrick's fans know that it's because of Pete that he wears the necklace and Pete likes that Patrick lets them have that. He's so fucking private normally, in all the ways Pete isn't.

Pete picks Patrick up at the airport the day he's due home and Patrick just falls against him, tucking his face to Pete's neck as they make their way to Pete's car. He's a little unsteady on his feet, but Pete just supports him gently, guiding him to the parking lot.

“Tired and pukey, Pete,” Patrick says in the car. “This is not my best.”

“Nah, you look beautiful,” Pete says back, laughing when Patrick groans and leans his head against the window.

 

Patrick's morning sickness is brief, clearing up in a few weeks, just as other symptoms become a lot more obvious. Pete's dick is wet and warm, tucked up inside Patrick, who rides him slowly, hands fisted in the pillows either side of Pete's head. Pete’s still trying to catch up from the last time. _He's exhausted_ , they've gone from not really fucking much at all to Patrick wanting it all the time.

“I want you to fuck me at least three times more today,” Patrick says, looking soft eyed and red cheeked. His skin's bloomed recently, looking clear and fresh, his hair soft and unsettled beneath his fingers. Pete doesn't say anything about it because Patrick doesn't do well with compliments, but he must be able to see.

“Full of... _uh_... boundless energy,” Pete squeezes out on a tight breath. Patrick's waist has thickened slightly, Pete doesn't think anyone else could tell, but he has his hands on Patrick's body enough to realize that parts of him have started to change. His fingers press down against the base of Patrick's spine, sliding lower to give himself more leverage. “You're amazing.”

“Nah. You just love me on your dick,” Patrick says, and then stops to groan loudly. “I love me on your dick.”

Between Patrick wanting to either fuck him or eat; because suddenly his appetite has increased like no one's business, Pete manages to get some work done. He sloughs through bookings and shoots, trying to clear his schedule for later on in the pregnancy. They still haven't told anyone the news, but Patrick's given him permission to let Andy know.

“I don't even know why you'd want imitation bacon when you come to a vegan restaurant,” Andy says, arms folded when Pete asks for it, unable to hide his fond smile behind his impressive beard.

“Well actually, I'd like some real bacon, but as I'm here,” Pete says, smirking at Andy's exasperation. “I'm kidding I'll have that vegan burrito again.”

Andy disappears for a while and Pete looks around to see that customers are actually in the cafe this time. Hippies with dreads and hipsters with Macs and all kinds of freaks. Pete's feeling very secure about himself by the time Andy sits opposite him, smiling at Pete warmly.

“What's up?” Andy asks. “You and Patrick doing okay?" Andy's cool with everything, about who Patrick is and how Pete ended up in a serious relationship with a vaguely famous musician. When Pete thinks about it, he's not sure what Andy wouldn't be chill about.

“It's early days so we're not really telling anyone yet, but well, Patrick and I are having a baby," Pete says with the largest fake smile he can muster, watching Andy's eyebrows rise all the way up into his hairline.

“Uh, okay. So...adoption or surrogacy?” he says cautiously when he's covered his surprise. If this hadn't been an accident, there's no way they'd be having kids right now. Andy knows this just as well as Pete. Patrick is barely at home, Pete only sees him half the year; it's not the best circumstances.

“No,” Pete shakes his head. “I, uh...accidentally knocked him up. His contraception fucked up and we decided that maybe we could do it, you know? Like, why not?”

“You decided _why not_?” Andy says slowly, like he's waiting for the punchline. Pete supposes it's not the best way to put it. He grimaces, scratching the back of his head, trying to defend himself.

“It's not like _that_. I don't know. We're freaking out, but we're happy about it. We're not gonna like..screw this up really badly. We're gonna try and make it work. I don't know if it will or not, but we're trying.” Pete's shoulders sag in deflation because talking about this scares him, fucking freaks him out beyond belief.

“You've not been together long though. Does he really want to put himself in that position?” Andy asks, his voice soft and kind, like he can tell Pete’s getting worked up. His hand is a comforting touch against Pete’s forearm and he smiles as Pete pulls himself together.

“We talked about it. He had other options, but he wanted to do this. When we're not shitting our pants, we're happy.” Pete thinks they're happy about it, even if a baby seems like something way off in the distance. It's like a steeplechase; hurdle after hurdle with the finish line being their own baby.

Andy succumbs, like he always does when it comes to Pete, and he shakes his head, giving a small wink. “If you're happy then I'm happy. How far along?”

“Only twelve weeks. We're not really telling anyone yet, I just needed to tell someone.” Pete smiles. “I'm gonna be a dad. How fucking cool? You'll be the godfather, right?”

Andy smiles again, looking like he's finding it hard to keep his composure at being asked, before nodding his red face. “Yeah, buddy. If that's what you want.”

“Patrick and I are bound to fuck up at some point so they'll need your vegan prowess to guide it down the right path,” Pete says. He can't help but laugh when he sees how flustered Andy looks at being asked.

 

Patrick's already in a nervous mood when they're about to have their twelve week appointment. He's holding tight to Pete's hand in the waiting room, looking at where there's one mother with a sizable stomach, a toddler on her lap and another preschooler running through the clinic with light up shoes. Pete can see Patrick's brain clicking over into panic mode as he watches, his knees bouncing up and down.

“I swear to God that will not be us,” Pete tells Patrick, because he doesn't really see them doing this more than once. Patrick turns to him, eyebrow raised.

“I don't know how I feel about this Pete, about having a kid.” Patrick squeezes Pete's hand, and Pete swallows. This is just like before, when Patrick freaked out about his relationship with Pete. He tends to head for denial before acceptance, Pete won't let it become more than that.

Just as Pete's about to verbally respond, the kid trips over his clumsy feet, slamming face first onto the tiled floor. It's not a bad fall, but the siren scream the child starts projecting is enough for Pete to wince.

“This is such a bad idea,” Patrick whispers into Pete's shoulder, looking ready to flee. Then a nurse is walking over, smiling down at the mother fussing her preschooler, before calling Patrick's name.

Patrick settles down once they're in the room. Though his fingers twitch restlessly against Pete's, his face is chalk-white. The nurse only has to take one look at Patrick before telling him he's still anemic.

“I'm working on it,” Patrick says with a grimace. “I don't like the supplements, so we're trying to fix the levels with a better diet.” Patrick's definitely eating enough at the moment; eating for two, even if one of them is little more than a few inches big.

“We'd rather you stuck to the prescribed tablets, Patrick,” she tells him, looking at Pete sternly when Patrick looks away. She does Patrick's blood work, mostly to check his iron levels before asking them whether they've had a sonogram yet.

“No, I was on tour when I was supposed to have it,” Patrick says, and Pete knows that's a fucking excuse. It would've been easy to book one before or after he came back, not weeks later. Patrick didn't want to have it, has been putting it off, and Pete can't force it on him.

“I can do your dating ultrasound now, then. You're due one anyway,” she says instead. Patrick looks nervous, but he won't look at Pete as he rests back on the chair, waiting for her to start. Pete's in a mesmerized trance as she starts the scan, staring at the gray swirls of Patrick's insides; hearing the heartbeat and seeing his kid on screen for the first time.

“Fetus is 5 cm in diameter, which puts him at roughly eleven weeks or so,” she says. They were back from Paris then, so maybe right before Patrick left for tour. That time he fucked Patrick slow because he was upset, perhaps. They do it a lot when Patrick's at home, it's hard to say. “You're coming along nicely.”

“Will I start showing soon?” Patrick asks and she looks down briefly at Patrick's middle, handing him some paper towels to clean himself off with when she's finished.

“You've probably already noticed a little thickening of your waist by this point. By the end of this month it'll be noticeable, small but noticeable.”

“I'm scared of that part,” Patrick mumbles to himself, letting go of Pete's hand to swing his legs over the side. The lady nods her head, not necessarily understanding the situation, but being sensitive all the same. “Are all kids like that one out there? Running around like crazy and screaming?”

She laughs, “At one point or another, yes. They grow out of it though. And you have the early years to get through first.” She gives them an apologetic look before winking and Pete feels his stomach flip with something he doesn't know.

“Wonderful.” Patrick doesn't look up, even as Pete sorts out the next appointment, but his mood is low enough that Pete hovers awkwardly beside him as they leave the clinic.

Patrick isn't willing to talk when they get back to the car, so Pete just turns the radio up and lets Patrick stew in his silence. Once they're back at the apartment Patrick just holes up in the bedroom with their dog. Pete mostly feels useless.

He decides to pop into the studio for a few hours, but when he goes to tell Patrick, he's fallen asleep, curled up with Bowie in the middle of their bed. Pete scrawls a note and leaves it beside him, kissing Patrick's head softly

Brendon's out on a shoot, so Pete gets the office to himself. He ends up crying in the work bathroom, head in his hands and gasping for breath, his anxiety finally catching up with him. He doesn't know what to do about Patrick and the baby and trying to be the level headed one, it's all crashing over him. He's been stable for years now, and happy, and he's trying to hold onto too many threads at once that it's all getting too much.

He works through the backlog of work that's built up once he's calmed down. He books up heavily through the next week. He figures maybe it's best to give Patrick a bit of space; time alone to work through his shit.

He feels better once he's focused on work for some time. He just needed to clear his head of the constant whirring thoughts; work's always been a welcome distraction. When he gets back to the apartment a few hours later Patrick is standing in front of the refrigerator, the scan of the baby pinned up to it's door.

“You doing okay?” Pete tentatively asks, curling his hand over one of Patrick's shoulders. Patrick nods his head, looking at Pete briefly before staring back at the photo.

“Just have to keep reminding myself that this is temporary, it's not going to last forever.” He's gritting his teeth, looking tired and pissed off at things Pete can't even think straight about.

“Do you even want to keep it?” Pete asks, tired of the way Patrick says this shit. Acting like Pete didn't give him a choice in this. Part of him knows Patrick can't help feeling this way, but he just wishes they could be happy about it for more than a few hours at a time.

“Yeah, but there's so much shit that comes with it, Pete. This baby is gonna turn into someone that we'll have to support for eighteen years plus. If we break up we'll be stuck with each other even longer. You really want that? To put up with me for the rest of your life?” Patrick's face is red, and he looks like he's been wanting to fight it out for the past few hours now, but Pete can't. He's exhausted from his own breakdown earlier.

"Why are you acting like that's a bad thing?" Pete throws his hands out, frustrated and worn out by Patrick's constant changes in mood. “You know what? I'm going to bed, I'd appreciate if you left me alone for a while. I can't fucking deal with you.”

Pete gets into the bed and turns all the lights out, willing to stew in his own bad mood for a while. He's mentally tired and he hates that after seeing their kid together for the first time they can't even enjoy it. He _knows_ it's scary, but he wants Patrick to care, or at least fake it for Pete's benefit.

Patrick comes into the bedroom later, Pete can't say when. It could be an hour or three. Pete feels Patrick straddle him, kissing at his cheeks and jawline, tucking his head to Pete's chest for a moment.

“I don't set out to be an asshole every time I open my mouth,” Patrick says softly. Pete plans on not touching him back, still upset himself, but his hand automatically goes to the back of Patrick's head, cupping it gently in his hand.

“I'm trying to help, Patrick, but I don't know how to make things better for you. We saw our kid, but you couldn't care less.” Pete can't see Patrick's face in the dark room, can't pick out the expression on his face.

“I do care,” Patrick says. “I'm sorry if it seems like I don't. It just feels like I'm stepping out of the body I want and back into one I was never happy in. I'm gonna be forced into this role that I don't understand and I don't want to fuck this relationship up, but it feels like I have already.”

“You haven't fucked this relationship up, but you will if you keep shutting me out. I swear I love you, but I won't stay if you make me feel like this constantly. I don't know what I'm doing either, I don't have any of the answers you want.” The conversation isn't making Pete feel better, but he figures it's probably a good thing to discuss this shit.

“I know,” Patrick says, pressing his face to Pete's neck. “I don't know how to come to terms with this. The baby and pregnancy and all the stuff in between. This is more than just buying a dog together.”

“You make me not want to approach you after today,” Pete confesses, feeling Patrick nod his head for a few seconds before bursting into tears. Pete’s shocked, Patrick's usually pretty good at admitting defeat when he's fucked up; he can be grumpy about it, but he's never like this. He's not much of a crier. “Hey Patrick, it's alright.”

“No... I don't know, I've been on the edge all day,” Patrick says, sitting up and sniffing. “I think it's the hormones. You know I'm not normally like this.” He punctuates this by crying harder and pulling at his hair, before groaning in frustration.

Pete pulls at his wrists, so that he can see Patrick's face, and he tries not to laugh; to be that much of a dick, even if Patrick deserves it. “Shh, don't cry.”

“Trying not to,” Patrick says, sniffing hard, and mostly failing at the not crying. “I swear this baby best be fucking worth it.”

“I don't know how to answer that,” Pete says, laughing, but mostly despairing.

 

Patrick has good days and bad days, that's the only way that Pete can describe it. He starts to show once he's a few weeks into the second trimester, his stomach stretching out Pete’s soccer shirts and band shirts. Pete doesn't say anything, he thinks he looks cute, but he doesn't want to jeopardize Patrick's good days by triggering anything. He's not going to ask Patrick to buy maternity clothes because he's always got it hot for Patrick in his stuff.

Still, Patrick comes to terms with the idea that they're having a baby, even if he's still insistent that they keep it a secret. He's steadfastly refusing to tell his own parents, says that if he's not telling the fans he's pregnant, then his parents won't know. They don't come to the apartment and they only really talk via email.

“When the baby comes I'll let them know,” Patrick shrugs, but then starts on another subject. “I think we should go for a neutral name, I want our kid to come to their own decisions on gender when they're older, so a name that fits both would be best. Personally I don't think a name can be gendered, but, you know, _society_.”

“Yeah, society,” Pete says, he puts a hand on Patrick's stomach, feels the firm bump starting to grow. He can't wait until he feels it kick, but he's already prepared for the constant whining Patrick will do when the baby starts wiggling. Sixteen weeks still seems like such a way off until the home stretch. “That's a good idea though.”

The problem ends up being that they're so disagreeable with nearly everything in life that they can't ever decide on a decent name. Patrick hates nearly everything Pete comes up with, but Patrick is endless boring with the Taylors and Parkers he suggests.

“Every part of this gives me a fucking headache. None of it comes easy. I thought picking a name would be something fun,” Patrick says, dropping the baby book down next to him and falling dramatically onto the couch. “Fucking wish we were in Paris right now, having sex in the hotel, going to a soccer game. Watching you obsess over your camera.”

“I wasn't obsessing.” Pete looks at Patrick's bump, which is sort of small, but more noticeable because he's completely flat-chested. “I feel like Paris was the pinnacle of our relationship so far,” Pete jokes. Patrick smiles tiredly at him, pulling him down onto the couch. “Wait... Hang on. What about that?”

“What about what?” Patrick looks confused, but Pete's on the very edge of a brainwave and he puts a finger to Patrick's lips before explaining.

“We could name them Paris. You know, from one highlight of our relationship to the other. Hopefully.” Pete likes the name. It sounds good on his tongue and it's neutral. There was the dude in Ancient Greece, _and_ Paris Hilton.

“That's pretty sappy.” Patrick scrunches his nose up, but then takes pause, thinking it over. “Anyway the dates don't match, I didn't get pregnant until we got back.”

“So?” Pete sits up and stares at Patrick. “But you like the name Paris?”

“I do, actually. Paris Wentz, hmm?” Patrick pokes his stomach and Pete looks at him curiously, before whacking Patrick softly on the side of his head.

“Come on, it's your kid too. Why give it one of our shitty last names when it could have both? Double-barrell that shit.” He watches Patrick rub the side of his head for a few seconds before shrugging.

“I was gonna let you have it as a thank you for being awesome, but okay, we can double-barrel. It sounds pretty bourgeois, but it's cool. I like it." Patrick nods his head, looking down at where he's growing.

“Paris, huh? You like the name daddy gave you?” Pete says to Patrick's stomach, getting nothing but radio silence, They're sort of just waiting around for the next big milestone to hit. Patrick's just getting rounder, with neither the sickness or the horniness sticking around at this point.

“It's definitely Paris,” Patrick says quietly. “Feels right.”

 

“I hope they're not like me,” Patrick confesses one night though. They're in bed, Pete’s got his shitty reality TV on, and Patrick's been staring up at the ceiling for the past twenty-five minutes, not talking. “I'm scared they'll be like me.”

“There's nothing wrong with you,” Pete says, watching Patrick run his fingers up and down his stomach, his eyes still fixated on the ceiling. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I'll love them and you'll love them, but the rest of the world will treat them like shit, I know. I can deal with it because I'm older and because I avoid confrontation, but I remember what it was like being a kid and not feeling right, feeling like it was my fault. I don't want them to have to go through that. It's the worse feeling. We both know what people say about me, we both know what that feels like.”

Pete does know, and his stomach churns sometimes because it's _disgusting_. He doesn't even have to look that hard to see the vile shit written about Patrick, but it'll be different for Paris. The likelihood that they'll be both famous and non-binary seems pretty low to Pete. Still, he mutes the TV and turns to Patrick.

“Well I dunno, if we raise them right I don't see them having any trouble at home. We're not your parents, we'll do better than that. It's not something any of us can control, we just have to give them space to experiment and grow.”

Patrick shrugs, suddenly pushing his lips out. “I feel like I shouldn't complain... They never kicked me out or anything. I had it better than a lot of people.”

“Doesn't mean you can't be upset. Come on, It's gonna be our kid. They're gonna be the weirdest little freak on the planet because it's half you and me, not for any other reason.” Pete bops Patrick on the nose, watching him wrinkle it up. He's had his own worries about the kid inheriting his own issues, but he hasn't bothered Patrick with that. “You should be more worried about them inheriting your gigantic forehead.”

Patrick's miserable face twitches into a quick smile, his fingers tracing Pete's cheek before pressing between his eyebrows. “I hope they don't get your monobrow.”

“Yeah, _alright,_ ” Pete takes the hand Patrick has on his face and kisses his knuckles before holding it in his own. “We'll have a pretty weird looking kid, but whatever. We'll love it.”

“Weird mostly because of you,” confirms Patrick. “I'm happy, Pete, about this. Even when it seems like I'm not.”

“Promise?” Pete asks, even when he knows not to ask, not to push Patrick. For now Patrick just smiles, rubbing at his tired eyes with one hand.

“Today I'm happy.”

 

Then there're the days where he won't talk to Pete at all. He sits hunched over on the couch, dark circles under his eyes as he stares at his laptop and ignores Pete whenever he attempts conversation. Pete stares down at his belly, and he thinks he'd probably have left by now if it wasn't for the kid. On days like this it just doesn't seem worth it. He goes to work without telling Patrick when he'll be home, but it doesn't matter, Patrick's in the bedroom ignoring him at that point.

Pete gets shaken awake in the middle of the night, Patrick sitting up warm in the bed, acting like he hasn't been a little bitch all day. “Pete, I need you to go to the store. We don't have any ice cream.”

“I'll get some tomorrow, Jesus. Go back to sleep.” Pete tries to roll over, but Patrick's fingers dig hard into his shoulder, stopping him.

“I can't wait until then. I literally spent the last fifteen minutes imagining eating really cold ice cream with potatoes and I want to cry because we don't have any. So you need to go get me some.”

Pete blinks up at him and then looks over at the glowing clock showing it's two-thirty in the morning. Pete can't process the fact that Patrick's expecting him to get clothes on and head across town to get him potatoes and ice cream at two-thirty in the fucking morning. He's not really had weird cravings yet, but Pete guesses they've finally kicked in.

“There's a twenty-four hour diner around the block. We can go there if you like,” Pete says, voice still raspy with sleep. “We can go there now and then tomorrow I'll get to the store.”

Patrick nods and then climbs from the bed. Neither of them bother to change out of pajamas. Patrick pulls a baseball hat down low, but Pete can't bother with that and just slides a hand over Patrick's waist, pulling him close as they walk from the apartment. At least he's no longer aggressively ignoring Pete like he has the rest of the day. “What you thinking about?”

“Ice cream,” Patrick says softly, “It's all I've been thinking about for hours. You have no idea. I couldn't sleep because of it. It's the weirdest fucking thing.”

Pete laughs even though he's tired; even though he'd rather be tucked up in bed with Patrick, asleep and safe. Pete orders Patrick a chocolate sundae with a side of mashed potatoes; a coffee for himself. This feels a little bit like a dream: like another reality. Patrick's a semi-famous musician that Pete’s accidentally knocked up, this all seems surreal.

They're silent as they wait for the food, but Pete's stomach recoils at the smell of sweet sticky ice cream once it arrives. He ignores the odd look the waitress gives them and instead touches Patrick's thigh beneath the table as he demolishes the food in front of him. He eats the potatoes first, moaning beneath his breath as he eats. By the time he's finished that, he's tucking into creamy, softened ice cream, licking at the spoon as he looks at Pete staring into his coffee and not drinking.

“I know I'm being a dick to you, like, constantly,” Patrick admits. “I'm not gonna just blame it on the hormones. I cry and eat because of the hormones, but I hate myself because I can't really love myself like this. Nothing you can say will make me feel good about the fact that I'm giving into parts of my body I never wanted to.”

“You didn't have to keep it,” Pete says. “I would've stood by you if you wanted to get rid of it. I've told you that a billion times now.”

“I didn't want an abortion. I'm not ready for a kid and I'm scared, but I want this with you. Doesn't mean I can prance around like I'm ready to embrace this.” Patrick digs at the bottom of his sundae, trying to get the last scraping of ice cream from the glass. Pete can't bear the noise it makes, but he doesn't stop it either.

“I'm trying my best, Patrick, I swear you are getting the best I can give you.” Pete pushes his still-full coffee away, looking up to see that Patrick's eyes are wet and he looks close to crying. Pete sighs. “Don't cry.”

“Can't help it,” Patrick says, he rubs at his eyes from beneath his hat, legs tucked up beneath himself. “Jesus, Pete. This is the problem I have. You yell at me when I fuck up and then I start crying. Don't fall for the tears this time, fucking put me in my place, man, or I'll just keep walking over you.” Patrick sniffles through his words and Pete rubs his shoulder sympathetically.

“I don't let you walk over me because you're crying. It's because I love you, idiot.” Pete leans over and kisses Patrick's shoulder through the hoodie he's wearing.

“I know, but you have to shake me out of this because I can't stop myself.” Patrick sniffs harder, then looks down at his empty glass, his lips turning out into a pout. “I want more ice cream.”

Pete’s lips twitch up into a smile. “You want me to buy you another sundae?”

“Some people crave fruit, but of fucking course that wouldn't be me. I'm gonna get so fucking fat,” Patrick whispers, but he looks at Pete from under the bill of his cap. “But I won't be able to sleep unless I get it.”

Pete leans over to kiss his cheek before nodding his head at the waitress and ordering another sundae.

 

At the next sonogram they find out that Paris is a boy. Patrick gets a little better after that, in that he doesn't ignore Pete for days, and opens up a bit more. They decide to stick with he/him pronouns for the baby, but aren't concerned if Paris wants to change them when he's older. Before Patrick, Pete would never think outside of girl and boy; blue and pink, but no longer having those barriers is pretty freeing. Mostly Pete just wants to dress Paris up as a baby punk, maybe with a pirate edge. Mostly Patrick tells him to shut up about it.

Whilst Pete spends his free time thinking about all the sick clothing he's going to buy their kid, Patrick paces their apartment, obsessing over contracts that aren't legally binding.

“I just think there should be some kind of prenup to do with kids, you know?” he says to Pete one Sunday. He's twenty-five weeks now, and really starting to show. They're still not telling people. Well, they've told close friends, but it's such a sensitive subject that Pete isn't going to fight Patrick on it. He's been shut down _and_ locked out of the apartment when he suggested they do a twitter announcement.

“Why would we need a prenup for the baby?” Pete plays along for now, looking up from the laptop. Bowie's warming his feet, worn out from the long walk Patrick took him on that morning.

“Because there's no knowing if this relationship will last or not.” Patrick sits beside Pete and he looks so fucking earnest that Pete can't find it in him to be too upset at his words. He remembers what Patrick was like before, how he ran away from Pete instead of facing his feelings. “And I think we should have an agreement in place for custody so that we don't have to fight dirty in court. We shouldn't do that to Paris.”

“No, we shouldn't,” Pete says, “I'm guessing you've come up with a plan?”

Patrick nods. “I was thinking joint custody, that he lives with me, but when I tour he lives with you. That way we have equal guardianship, but when I go away you'll be around to completely look after him. That means we'll always have to live pretty close to each other, but I think it'll be workable.”

Pete’s surprised at how reasonable Patrick's being, even if it's _majorly_ against what he wants. He just nods his head instead of pushing the subject. “Alright, that's pretty good. But that's not the only thing is it?”

Patrick wants them to agree on Pete and Paris coming out with him on tour once he starts his career up again. Pete thinks it's stupid because Patrick is just over six months pregnant, and he's agreed to take another six off once the baby's born. It's an argument that can be dealt with at another point, he doesn't want to do it right now when everything is so taut.

“Patrick, you do realize that I have a job I love and I'm not giving up? I love you, dude, but I'm not losing my career just because we have a kid,” Pete tells him bluntly, catching the way Patrick's eyes narrow at him, arms folded tight over his chest.

“Yeah, but why should I give up my career then? I want to be around for my kid when he grows up, but I also want to continue with my music. Just because I'm his 'mother' it doesn't mean I have to be the one to sacrifice shit. I've already sacrificed plenty.”

Pete signs Patrick's baby prenup, mostly to quell that argument for the time being, and never says anything about how it's nowhere near legally binding. Pete sits on his thoughts about the other part for a while, but then a week later he tells Patrick, “We'll come away on your official tours for the US dates. But festivals, mini tours, and anything outside of the country we'll stay here in Chicago.”

Patrick looks at Pete, mulling it over with squinted eyes. It takes a while, but he finally nods his head in agreement. “Alright, I like that. For now, at least.” It doesn't sound like the end of the conversation, but Pete's willing to forget about it for at least a year, until it really becomes an issue.

 

“I've been thinking,” Patrick says on a day that Pete's working from home. He's had something on his mind for hours, it's obvious from how he's been walking around with his eyebrows knitted together, shooting weird looks at Pete. Pete's just been waiting for the actual conversation to happen.

“Spit it out,” Pete says instead. Patrick sits down next to him and Pete's eyes fall to his stomach. It is weird, Pete wouldn't say it aloud, but it is. Patrick's never been built like a twig, always had a softness, but there's a round, round curve to his stomach and he's a little bigger everywhere else too.

He's been grumpy for weeks because his cravings for gritty mashed potatoes and ice cream has finally started to show in his face. He's been ducking awkwardly in the photos Pete posts of him on Twitter, so that his weight gain isn't obvious. Patrick's completely abandoned his own social media since getting pregnant and Pete's photos are the only way his fans know he's not actually dead.

“I'm not ashamed of the fact that I'm Paris' birth parent, but I don't know if I'd be comfortable being called mom. It's not me, and I can't picture some little kid calling me that. Can you only be called mom if you're a woman?” Patrick says eventually, disturbing Pete's thoughts.

“Of course not,” Pete insists, like he knows what he's talking about. “Doesn't everyone always tell you Patrick's a boys name? You're not a dude. But I wondered what you were thinking, you don't really seem like a mom.”

“I want him to call me _something_. Like, you're his dad, but that doesn't fit me either. I looked online and so many people use names from other cultures.... it doesn't seem right to me, I'm not Jewish so why would I use a Jewish name? Other people use initials, but mine sound like pasta when you put them together.” Patrick scratches the side of his head, laughing and looking away when Pete grins at him.

Pete laughs, imitating a squeaky voice, “'My name's Paris and I love my dad and pasta.'”

“Exactly,” Patrick explains. “I mean, he's not gonna be saying it right away, but I still wanna find something that makes me comfortable.”

Pete nods, fingers tapping on the side of the couch. Patrick's own hands are twitching against his mouth, fading back into his own thoughts again. “What if he starts calling you mom naturally?”

“I wouldn't mind if it was something he did of his own accord in private, but I just don't want it to be something we encourage. Or I don't know, this is all so fucking confusing.” Patrick rubs a hand over his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “All the magazines are about _mommy and baby_ and I can't connect with that, I want to but I can't.”

Pete rubs Patrick's thigh, squeezing the soft meat gently beneath his fingers. Patrick takes Pete's hand from his thigh and instead puts it on the side of his stomach, silently telling him to rub. Pete does as he's ordered, pressing against the tight skin. There's no movement right now, no little pops against his palm. It was unreal the first time he felt it for himself, and he's always seeking for more and more interaction with Paris.

“Have you thought anymore about telling your parents?” Pete broaches the subject cautiously, wishing he hadn't when Patrick gives him a sidelong look. Pete raises his palms in an apology “They might be excited. They might not be idiots.”

Patrick gives Pete another filthy look, pushing his hand from his stomach and huffing loudly. “They'll take it as a sign that I'm secretly their daughter, that I've just been attention seeking for years. I don't want to hear that, so I'm not telling them.”

“Well, I don't know. Are you just gonna turn up at your mom's next birthday with Paris? Like, here's a baby I made with that dude you don't like?” Pete scratches his head, but this is pretty much like talking to a brick wall and it's not getting any better. They don't really talk about Patrick's parents; how his mom dislikes Pete for turning up at her house last year, trying to fix the damage her family caused.

“I'll email them when he's out,” Patrick shrugs, “I might tell Kevin. If he's not a douche.”

“He'll always be a douche, but I don't think he has bad intentions.” Pete doesn't mind Kevin, he's even been over to the apartment a few times. Mostly he just has a big mouth and zero tact, kind of like Pete, really.

“That's not the point.” Patrick looks down, frowning. “At least your parents are cool. If I was inclined to have a baby shower I'd invite them.” Pete's been allowed to tell his own mom and dad. The shock on their faces when Pete told them the news is probably something Pete will never forget. They like Patrick though, he's always on his sweetest behavior when they come over for a visit.

“We could have a ba-” Pete starts, but Patrick gives him a _third_ killer look, elbow jamming sharp into Pete’s ribs.

“No shower, no party. Just a baby in a few months,” Patrick says, and Pete figures that's the last word on that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get to have this chapter early as I'm away for the next week. I'll post the final part when I'm back :)

“Wow, you're _huge_.” Pete looks up from his computer to see Patrick looking offended at Brendon's attempt at a greeting. “No! I meant because of the baby. Not because you look fat. You look great! Nice and healthy.”

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick says, holding a finger out and tapping it against Brendon's lips. “Nice to see you, too. No, you can't touch,” he says again when he sees Brendon open his mouth, the hovering hand falling back to his side. Patrick leaves him dawdling, smiling at Pete as he takes a seat beside him.

“What're you doing here?” Pete asks curiously. Patrick smells like the cold and Pete's clucking instincts want to flood Patrick with words of concern. He keeps them inside though, Patrick can handle anything, really. Plus he hates Pete fussing over him.

“I was bored. I needed a walk, I guess. I tried writing again, but nothing comes out right anymore. It's all acoustic sap.” Patrick blows air out of his mouth, nose pink from the fresh air.

“That must be killer,” Pete laughs. He unzips Patrick's coat, pulling his hat from his head and tossing it behind him, onto the office floor. “You'll overheat in here if you stay wrapped up.”

Patrick ignores the coddling for now, just blinks at Pete from behind his glasses. “You busy this afternoon?”

“Nah, we've got a drop in at three-thirty, but other that that we've not got much going on. You want me to take you home?” Pete strokes a hand down Patrick's face, but it sharply gets batted away.

“Don't smother me.” Patrick gives him a warning, and Pete nods, tucking his hand between his knees. “Maybe we can grab some dinner?”

Patrick spends the rest of the afternoon in the back room, reading the baby book that Pete’s been looking through. Pete liked the idea of going to a baby class together, but Patrick straight up refused. He won't even look into any queer-friendly ones, so Pete shut that idea down. Mostly they read books, trying to ignore the gendered bullshit, and try not to freak each other out.

“We need to buy baby stuff,” Patrick says to Pete when they leave the studio. “Crib, clothes, a fucking stroller.”

“I went looking for baby clothes the other week,” Pete admits, stopping to zip Patrick's coat a little higher beneath his chin. Patrick gives him a displeased look, but doesn’t fight him. “Dude, I swear everything is either blue, pink, or white.”

“Putting a baby in white seems like a terrible idea,” Patrick muses and Pete laughs, sliding their fingers together. Recently the good days seem to be outweighing the bad, and Patrick hasn't ignored or cried at him in over a week now. It's slow progress, but it's something. “We need to get a stroller. I wanna look at them in the store.”

Pete lifts an eyebrow, turning to Patrick. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking it needs to be lightweight so we can get it in and out of the apartment. I figured that narrows it down,” Patrick shrugs, “I haven't looked at anything. Every time I go into these stores they think I'm the dad and it pisses me off.”

Pete looks down at Patrick's stomach, surprised that anyone can mistake if for a dude's paunch, but Pete supposes Patrick's put more weight on all over, it shows a fair amount in his face, so maybe it's that. “We go now and they'll think we're two dudes adopting a baby.”

“Or I'm just your lesbian sister carrying the kid,” Patrick says back. It's a weird assumption that's been made to them on one occasion, Pete finds it hilarious, unable to see how anyone can mistake them for siblings.

They end up buying a stroller that turns into a car seat because that's what the assistant says is the best thing around. She seems nice, in that she doesn't assume anything about them, and just smiles at any mention of Paris.

Pete gets distracted by the cribs though, so they end up wandering around that section of the store, half an ear on the mid-noughties pop playing through the speakers. There's bassinets and cribs and tiny little mobiles that Patrick spins, biting his lip in thought, humming along to the tinny music.

Pete slides up behind him, tucking his hands to his belly and smiling when Patrick leans back. “What'cha thinking about?”

“That this makes me excited. I haven't really felt it yet, but I do now,” Patrick says. His fingers tap restlessly on the bars of the nearest crib; engraved with stars and hearts over the main frame. Pete nods his head, linking their fingers together over the wood.

“It's crazy, right?” Pete says and Patrick nods, leaning back harder. “Seen a crib you like?”

Patrick shows Pete the co-sleeping crib he likes the look of, even though all the books say don't do that shit, but Pete doesn't smoke anymore and it's not like Paris will be in the bed with them. They order that, but also a plain white one to go into the nursery.

“We haven't even decorated it,” Patrick says, watching as Pete pays for the goods. The stroller they're taking now, but he's having the rest of it delivered next week.

“Yeah, well. It's baby steps with you, isn't it? I didn't want to set off another tantrum.” Pete takes the stroller from Patrick, laughing at the dirty look he gets in response. “Come on, you want some dinner? Want some mashed potatoes?”

“Don't make fun of me,” Patrick says, but he slides his hand through Pete’s elbow and pulls him in close.

Patrick wants sex that night, which is a rare and wonderful thing these days. Positions are pretty awkward, and Patrick needs to lay on a mountain of pillows just to stop his back from aching, but it's worth it for how Patrick pulls on his hair when Pete eats him out, with how he gets to fuck Patrick like that, making love to him without Patrick's mouthy input for once.

Afterward, Pete even gets to spend time talking to Paris. Patrick says he's allowed to touch and feel anytime, but that's not really true. On the bad days, Patrick can barely deal with Pete holding his hand, let alone interacting with his stomach.

“I found a pretty cool nickname for Patrick earlier,” Pete says, stroking his fingers down Patrick's stomach. He rests his cheek against it, shutting his eyes to the feeling of Patrick's fingers combing through his hair. “For Paris to call you, maybe.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, he uses his nails to scratch at Pete’s scalp a little rougher, in a soothing massage, and Pete shudders against it for a moment.

“Well, how about Patch? It's cute and simple, it's not gender specific. If you don't like it, it's cool, but I don't know. It's sweet,” Pete shrugs. “Everything else is kinda shitty. It's the best of a bad bunch.”

“Patch?” Patrick sounds it out, humming softly before repeating it a few more times. “I like it. I didn't know it was a nickname for Patrick.”

Pete opens his eyes as he responds. “Me either. Beats Pasta though, right?”

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, one hundred percent. So, I am Patch... I'll have some little baby calling me Patch and you dad. It still seems fucking surreal.”

“Patch and Daddy,” Pete puts on a squeaky voice again and Patrick laughs from behind him. His skin is soft and damp beneath Pete, and Pete just stares up at him at the odd angle. He feels good; he looks great. Pete’s still hooked like crazy on him.

“My god, Pete. What the fuck are we doing? We're gonna drive that kid crazy.” Patrick's smiling though, like this doesn't bother him all that much. Pete’s sort of glad there'll be a kid around to deal with his shit too. Patrick is hard work.

“Nah, Paris is fine. Aren't you, buddy?” Pete pokes Patrick's stomach gently, feeling around for movement, and getting a flutter against his hand. Pete lets out a noise, which is sort of like a laugh, before shaking his head and pressing his lips to Patrick's stomach.

 

A week later, Pete decides they have to start doing _something_ about the nursery. It's laid empty ever since Pete cleared it out months ago. They want it neutral, but not yellow, and Patrick gets pissy about it whenever Pete attempts to take him to the hardware store for paint. In the end, Pete calls Travie up for some advice.

Travie flies into Chicago when Patrick's out visiting some upstate friends. Patrick's more frustrated these days with how cumbersome carrying a baby is. He's small, and Paris is _not_ and he hates that he's stuck in maternity clothes that he's not comfortable in. Pete bought some large hoodies and wore them around the house for a day or so before giving them to Patrick. That seemed to help more.

“You knocked Patrick up? Woah dude, that's not what I thought would happen,” Travie says on the subject, but then it's over because he's not an interfering asshole. They spend the day together, catching up, and trying to come up with some ideas for the nursery.

“Patrick's cute, but he's a feisty little thing. Hard work,” Travie says, after a morning of working on some ideas. Pete's still working on another project for Patrick, something he thinks will keep him in Patrick's good books, for like, a week or so.

Pete shrugs at his friend's comment. “He's hard work, but so am I. I dunno, dude, I think this will work out. I like a challenge, he's a good one.”

“I was friends with some of the dudes he hung out with in college, and I think I'm the first person he ever told about, you know.” Travie waves at his crotch area. “I used to look out for him when we were out. Make sure people kept their hands off him unless he wanted it.”

Pete nods his head, trying to ignore the sparks of jealousy over the thought of other people with Patrick. It's dumb, but he can't help it. “Did he appreciate that?”

“Depended on his mood,” Travie flashes a wry smile, like there’s a ton of stories in that sentence. He leans back and rubs his hands together. “Yeah, I've finished. You dig this?” Pete sits up, hand on Travie's bony shoulder as he leans over to stare at the sketches.

“Patrick will love it.” Pete smiles down at the artwork, grinning at Travie in excitement.

Patrick phones him as Travie works on the nursery. He's moaning about his friend's potatoes and how they don't match Pete's, whining pathetically down the phone. It's a compliment, sort of, so Pete laughs.

“Morning sickness is back too, but I think that might be nerves. I don't like being away from you now.” Patrick makes a disgusted sound, like he's pissing himself off. “And stop posting naked photos of yourself online, it always clogs my mentions for ages after. I was worried they found out about Paris.”

“Man, post-workout selfies set your fans off like nothing else, it's fucking hilarious.” Pete can sense the death glare Patrick's giving him, so he quickly changes the subject to Patrick's original response. “You're just feeling vulnerable. Don't worry, you won't stay this clingy forever." Pete knows that Patrick needs his independence; he isn't needy like Pete. “I miss you too, but I've got a surprise planned.”

“Ooh,” Patrick's voice lowers. “My sex drive has come back a little.”

Pete laughs, “Not that kind of surprise! But we can work something out if you're feeling hot and bothered.”

“Oh, well okay. Paris and I miss you, I keep feeling him kick today. He only does that when you're not around.” Patrick's words have Pete's eyes welling up and he has to breathe a few times; upset that he's missed out. “Anyway, I should go socialize. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“You sticking around to see Patrick?” Pete says to Travie the next day. He's totally in awe of what Travie's done, that he's done it so quickly, and so well. Patrick’s going to freak out in the best way.

Travie shakes his head, leaning down to pull Pete into a tight embrace. McCoy hugs are some of the best Pete’s ever had and he savors it until Travie pulls back. "Nah, I'll see him once he's had the baby. I don't want to get in the way of his head shit."

"He's doing a lot better than he was," Pete says and Travie nods, bumping their knuckles together. "Make him call me when he's seen it though, I wanna know his reaction "

 

Patrick immediately falls into Pete when he gets back later the next day. Paris gets in the way of them pressing fully against each other, but Pete breathes Patrick in all the same, cupping his stomach in his hand.

“You miss your daddy?” Pete asks, dropping to his knees. “Hi-five daddy.” Patrick moves Pete's hand to the side of his belly and only has to wait a few seconds before he feels a soft fluttering against his palm. Pete looks up in shock at Patrick, who looks tired, but not moody. “Little dude knows how to high five already. He's a genius.”

“He was kicking already,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes and tugging Pete up from the floor. "Didn't you have a surprise for me?"

“Alright!” Pete leans forward to kiss Patrick softly before he tells him to shut his eyes. Patrick only does it on the third ask, but Pete waits until his lashes flutter shut before he starts to guide him to the nursery.

Patrick goes soft in his arms as Pete guides him. He gets the door of the nursery open, Bowie leading the way, before he let's Patrick open his eyes. Travie's kept the walls white, but he's drawn the city scape of Chicago across the furthest wall. It's super bright and graffiti style, with a bubble plane and clouds all with smiles faces. In the bottom corner there's two people that look like caricatures of Pete and Patrick, walking a brown fluffy dog and a stroller with the tip of the Eiffel Tower sticking out.

“I had Travie do it. It's his present to us. Fitting kinda, as he's the one that brought us together,” Pete's rambling, still standing behind Patrick, hands on his hips. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, looking around the room in awe. Before he left Travie helped Pete out together the crib for in here. They strung up the mobile Pete's parents bought them after they found out the news. There's a changing table in the corner and a dresser that's still empty of clothes, but already filled with diapers. It makes it more real, more palpable, and even more exciting.

“We’re never gonna be able to move now,” Patrick says softly, he goes over to the crib, at where Pete's placed a soft teddy bear he bought Patrick in Disneyland. “You're doing your utmost to make me cry.”

“Yeah,” Pete shrugs, but it’s pretty easy these days. “If we need to move we'll get Travie to do it again.”

 

Patrick's eating more mashed potatoes when Pete comes back to the apartment. He smiles at Patrick, who gives a small one back, but mostly looks fed up over his current situation. He's not really been sleeping well, more from stress than Paris keeping him awake, but there's not much they can do.

“You got off early?” Patrick says, coughing into his hand when the gritty potatoes catch in his throat. Pete sits beside him at the table, slides his hand between the bars of the chair and Patrick's back to curve a hand over his waist, fingers seeking out warm skin.

“Yeah, I went to pick something up,” Pete says, letting Patrick kiss him on the mouth before continuing. “Something for you.”

“Ooh.” Patrick raises an eyebrow at Pete, sticking his fork into his half finished bowl and turning in his seat. Pete’s got nerves wriggling in his chest, even though it's only Patrick and he already knows the answer.

Pete fumbles in his pocket for the small box and then places it on the table between them. Patrick knows what it is right away, remembering their conversation in France, and Pete likes looking at how Patrick's cheeks are starting to pink up, his bottom lip catching between his teeth.

“You bought me a ring,” he says, eventually moving his hands to open the small box. “I was wondering when you were gonna do this.” He's trying to keep it casual, but Pete sees the way he's shifting. Pete rests his cheek on Patrick's shoulder as he opens the box, looking at the ring from all angles before turning to Pete. “It's fancier than I wanted.”

“Yeah, but-” Pete starts and then frowns. He could've got Patrick a plain band, which is probably what Patrick would want, but Pete’s a show-off and he wanted something more special. If they're not getting married, he wants to make more effort in the jewelry. “I didn't think it was too feminine. It's an opal because, uh, I like how they look different in the light. I don't know. Sort of like you, I guess.” Pete loses his confidence when Patrick does nothing but trace the outside of the square cut rock, set in a white gold band. Patrick's got small hands with thin fingers, the ring will stand out against them.

“It's nice, Pete.” Patrick slides the ring over his finger and then holds it out. “Good job my fingers haven't swollen with Paris. The only part of me that hasn’t.” He leans over and kisses Pete again, his mouth tasting like gritty potatoes, his fingers tracing down Pete's cheek. “You just fucking proposed to me over a plate of mashed potatoes.”

Pete shrugs, “You're either crying or eating at the moment so I tried to pick the right time. Plus, I wanted to do it before Paris was here.”

“I guess this means Paris is no longer a bastard.” Patrick touches his stomach fondly, looking down at himself.

“Pretty sure he's legally a bastard still, but it's fine,” Pete bats a hand, but then smiles at Patrick, not caring if he looks like a giant idiot. “Does this make us married now?”

“Yep,” Patrick says, “I guess you'll want a ring at some point.”

“Wait till you've pushed Paris out first,” Pete laughs when Patrick elbows him in the side, pushing away his bowl of now cold potatoes. “It's enough for me, this is enough. Just having you and Paris.”

“You're so sappy,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes, but his cheeks haven't lost their flush and he's looking overwhelmed. Pete rubs his hand that's still cupped to Patrick's waist, squeezing his hip lightly as Patrick pulls himself together. “I didn't think that I'd ever have someone that wanted to-- that would put up with me for this long and want to stay.”

“Yeah,” Pete shrugs, doesn't know what to say, only that he can't stop smiling. “We should just be happy now.”

They have sex that night, which Patrick says is like some weird consummation of their pseudo marriage before complaining of heartburn. Patrick's not really into it, Pete can tell, but when he goes to pull out and finish off by hand, Patrick shakes his head and pulls him in closer. Pete just buries his face into Patrick's neck, hurrying his way toward orgasm as quickly as possible.

Patrick strokes his hair afterward, letting Pete curl up on top of him, over the roundness of his middle. He doesn't say anything for a while, as Pete catches his breath, but then he starts speaking softly. “Sex was still good when I was horny all the time and just a little thick in the middle, but I hate the way I look right now and it makes me feel like shit.”

“I know,” Pete looks up, just catching Patrick's jawline and not his face. “We can chill on the fucking, it's fine.”

“Maybe,” Patrick shrugs, and looks over at Pete when he rolls away to his pillow, pulling his boxers up from around his knees. He sees Patrick staring down at the ring again, fiddling with it. “If we ever break up, I won't sell it. I'll just give it to Paris as, like, an heirloom or something.”

“You should give it back to me if we break up,” Pete laughs, but Patrick tuts from his side of the bed.

“No way. That'd be like apologizing for something that you fucked up.”

“That makes, literally, no fucking sense. Just... never give it back to me. If we broke up I'd never want to see you or the ring again. If we break up it'll be a fucking disaster on both our parts,” Pete laughs, even though the idea and thought of things being over with Patrick terrifies him a little.

“Not gonna happen,” Patrick sing-songs. “We'll have a kid, you can't not see me. We have that agreement anyway, you know? Joint custody means we'll always have to see each other.”

“Not really, plus that's still not a legally binding contract, it doesn't mean I'll do what you want when push comes to shove,” Pete admits. He wonders if this is going to turn into another argument, whether Patrick will start crying _again_ , but Patrick just shrugs his shoulder.

“I don't plan on leaving you, so I don't know why I brought it up,” Patrick says, smiling wide when Pete groans at him. He's insufferable sometimes, and Pete doesn't know why he finds these parts of him so fond.

“Did you ever think about keeping the baby you didn't have?” Pete asks later that night. Patrick's stayed still for while now, getting up at intervals so he doesn't get dizzy and faint before sitting beside Pete again. They don't talk about it, Patrick made it clear the very first time he told Pete that it makes him uncomfortable discussing it.

Now though, Patrick just shrugs. “It was never an option, I didn't let it be one.” His fingers tap restlessly on his open book before he looks up at Pete. “I didn't know who the father was, I wasn't stable at all, and in hindsight I definitely wouldn't have been able to do this alone.” His fingers wave at his bump, stroking down fondly as he thinks things over. “Before I met you I used to have these weird moments of regret because I felt like maybe if I'd had it I'd finally have someone that'd love me, I didn’t think anyone else would otherwise. Just abstract thoughts like that. It's very weird, and I never really know what to think about it. Maybe because I didn't let myself think about it at the time? I'm not sure.”

“It helped you clean up, though,” Pete says. “We all need that kick in the ass to let us know we've gotta stop pulling shit. Yours was just a quirky one.”

Patrick nods in agreement, pulling on Pete's wrist to allow him to feel Paris inside, kicking around. Pete's mouth twitches as he looks at the soft expression on Patrick's face. “I was such a mess, Pete. I'm so glad you didn't know me back then.”

The feeling's mutual, Pete’s super fucking glad Patrick didn't know him as the pill popping narcissist he was before. He's still a _little_ narcissistic, but he keeps within his dose of prescribed pills and doesn't go looking for more. He's been mentally sound since they've been together too.

 

 

Pete spends a lot of his spare time at Andy's cafe, trying to give Patrick space when he wants it. He's working on something for Patrick anyway, to try and cheer him up when he gets down.

“Give him this,” Andy says, pushing a bottle of homemade shake at Pete when the cafe empties out. “It's just camomile. It should help him sleep.”

“Some days he's fine and some days he's like this,” Pete says, thinking back to the silent treatment he was awarded that morning as he bags the drink. It was silent treatment and then it was screaming. All Pete had done was break a coffee mug. “We knew this wouldn't be easy, but I don't think we really thought it through.”

“I honestly didn't think he'd want kids naturally,” Andy says. “Like, it must be hard for him. His identity, I mean.”

“He was already so aware of who he was when we met and it's not an issue for me, he’s just Patrick, you know? But I don't know what the fuck I'm doing half the time, if I'm making things worse or not.” Pete feels himself getting flustered and worked up, so he takes a few deep breaths, feeling his friend's warm hand curve over his shoulder.

“He'll be okay. He’s not got long left to go, I think he'll really like this.” Andy nods down at what Pete's been working on, and Pete smiles shakily. He hopes so too, but he can never tell anymore.

When he gets home, Patrick's got dinner on and looks to be in a better mood. He smiles at Pete, giving him a large hug as he comes in the door. His stomach protrudes a lot now, but Pete just smiles weakly, glad that Patrick not screaming insults at him.

“Sorry I was such a dick this morning. I swear I won't abandon you and Paris, I was being hyperbolic.” Patrick looks genuinely apologetic, which is one of the reasons that Pete accepts his apology.

“You also said you should've had an abortion,” Pete mentions, to which Patrick looks away uncomfortably, filtering through some more excuses to use.

“I'm not a morning person and the dog was barking and you were making so much fucking noise with the coffee cup. I just-- I didn't mean any of it, and I'm sorry.” Patrick bows his head and lets out a shaky puff. Pete rubs between his shoulder blades, letting Patrick lean on him. “If it's any consolation, Paris has been kicking my internal organs all day to get back at me.”

“It's fine, Patrick. I actually...I've been working on something for you,” Pete says, grabbing his bag and pulling Patrick over to the couch. He sits Patrick down, smiling when Patrick eyes him curiously and then hefts the book out of his bag. “It's for you-- well, it's for Paris, really. I just think you'd like it too.”

It's just a photo album, but Pete’s spent the past week or so hunting down his favorite photos of Patrick and gluing them in. Pete's cheeks heat up, wondering if he's going about this the right way, but he just starts talking.

“I know you've been struggling with the pregnancy and I know we weren't together long before this happened. But I just-- you're still Paris' mom no matter what. Even if that's not what you're called.” Pete opens the book to where he's stuck photos of Patrick on stage. There's one of him performing in a red dress and silver boots, another with him in a suit and fingerless gloves. He written beside each photo, explaining how even though Patrick gave birth to Paris he's not a girl, not like what he'll learn most mom's are like, and that's why he goes by Patch. There's more pictures as the pages go on; Pete's favourite, the one he took on their last night in Paris and a recent one where Patrick's sitting on the couch with Bowie in his lap, smiling wide at Pete from behind the lens.

“I figured if we read this to him right from when he's really little, he'll understand you completely and it won't even be a thing for him. I just wanted to do something to make you feel better.” Pete's nervous for Patrick's reaction, so he turns the page for him. “There's a page of Bowie and one of me, but I thought maybe you'd like to work on that one yourself.”

“You did this for me?” Patrick says quietly. He looks close to tears again, though not through anger or annoyance for once. Sometimes Pete worries that he still gets it wrong, and says the wrong thing, but he's desperate for Paris to understand in ways that Pete can't. “Even when I’m horrible all the time?”

“Not all the time. But yeah, for all of us, really. I dunno, maybe we could do one every year to mark his growth. It might stabilize us a bit better.” Pete rubs at his scalp, harder and harder because he's so nervous about what Patrick's even thinking right now.

Patrick nods, still looking through the photos, before he turns to Pete and pulls him down for a kiss. “You're fucking amazing, I'm sorry for every time I'm an ass to you.”

“This isn't you being an ass. I mean, it _is_ , but you're not doing it on purpose,” Pete says. Patrick nods, tucking his head to Pete's neck.

“I just don't feel like myself anymore and I’m tired all the time. But, this will help. I'm going to work on your section tomorrow when you're at work.” Patrick traces the empty page Pete’s kept for his own part before looking up again. “Really though, it's not right how I've been treating you and I am sorry.”

“If you could try not to be so mean I'd appreciate it,” Pete says. “It's hard for me too, all of this.”

Patrick nods his head, rubbing Pete’s cheek a few times before going back to the scrapbook. He reads it over and over and Pete watches him, a little bit confused until he figures he's reading it out to Paris.

 

No matter what antenatal appointment they have, Patrick's getting told off about something. He's tried to stay on top of his anemia, but the pills weren't making much difference. When they upped the dosage he just started to puke it all up. They've fixed him up with some intravenous iron, and his levels have gone up, but he's still pale; he still doesn't look right to Pete. He’s constantly tired, and he’s dizzy a lot of the time.

“Have you got your birth plan in order yet?” the doctor asks this time, booking Patrick in for another round of blood work. Pete’s surprised Patrick has any veins left to poke, wonders if he's anemic because of all the blood they're taking from him.

“Not yet,” Patrick says, and he sucks in a breath like he's anticipating the next scolding. She turns to look at him in disapproval and he sighs, promising to start it when they get home.

“I don't want a lot of people in the room,” Patrick says that night. He's sitting at the table, trying to write out his birth plan. “Christ. I hate thinking about that part, you know, labor.”

“But once it's over all of this will be done with.” Pete points at Patrick's stomach, seeing him nod in agreement. “I guess you could schedule a c-section if you wanted.”

“I don't want that. It's like major surgery and I wouldn't get to hold Paris right away.” Patrick looks down at the sheet of paper in front of him. “Do I write that down? That I want to hold him when he's out?”

“I guess so,” Pete shrugs. “What have you written?”

“Not much, I don't really know what to put and when I looked online everyone says that they never stick to them anyway. I don't want a bunch of people in the room. I don't want people staring at me.” Patrick’s frowning down at the paper, resting his cheek on one hand, glasses crooked.

“Then write that down, I'm sure they'll be respectful of that, unless anything goes wrong.” Pete tries not to think about anything bad happening. Pete keeps reading about blood transfusions and emergency c-sections and fucking pre-eclampsia. The closer they get to the due date, and the fact Patrick’s still not on top of his anemia, the more panicky Pete gets.

“What about circumcision? We have to tell them if we want it or not,” Patrick says casually. “I don't think it's necessary, but I guess it depends on whether you want him to look like you in the shower.”

“Uhh.” Pete scratches his head, scared of a decision like that. It's probably not a big one in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like it right now. “I honestly don't know, Patrick.”

“Okay, well. I guess we'll figure it out nearer the time,” Patrick says without a hint of irony. Pete looks down at his stomach and swallows thickly.

 

Gabe comes up one afternoon for a visit, his last before Paris arrives, so Pete takes him to play a round of mini golf. He's as loud and brash as Pete remembers, and it brings that side out of him too. Pete loses, but only because Gabe cheats, not even hiding his foul play.

“I win, motherfucker,” Gabe says, raising his hand when an older lady looks over in disapproval. He swings the club over his shoulder and Pete ducks, getting out of his way. “How's impending fatherhood?”

“It's impending,” Pete says. He leaves Gabe to find them a picnic bench as he buys them some cold drinks. When he comes back, he sighs heavily and stares into his friend’s easy face. “We've been so caught up in how shitty his pregnancy is we’ve forgotten that we're gonna have to work out how to look after a baby.”

“I bet.” Gabe pings back the ring on his coke before slurping at the overspill. “Didn't think you'd have kids with him though. I like him, but I figured it wouldn't be for him.”

“We talked about surrogacy once, like, during sex. That's as far as we talked about it, but he's been better these past few months, he's actually planning things now instead of letting it crash over him.”

“What about you though?” Gabe goes serious, but it's alright. He's an idiot but he's Pete's idiot, and he understands him better than near enough anyone.”

“I'm okay. I actually think if he'd been more stable I'd have suffered worse, but he's been so fucking high maintenance that I don't even have time to think about myself.” Pete taps his fingers on the table, scratching at the soft wood for a time as he tries to work through his thoughts. “I don't know, Gabe. Part of me is terrified that he'll inherit my own fucking sickness. I haven't told Patrick because I don't need to give him another thing to freak out about, but no kid needs to think the way I used to.”

“Yeah, but a lot of kids do. You guys could've adopted and ended up with a child that's bipolar, depressed or _anything_ else, you know? It's out of your hands. And you can always send him to me if it gets too much for ya. Uncle Gabey wants to spend time with his baby boy.” Gabe sticks his chest out at the last part, completely ruining any of the affection Pete was starting to feel for him.

“Weird. I mean, you're right about the first part. I told Patrick the same thing when he was worrying about having a kid with gender issues, but then you went and said the last part. That, my friend, is why I chose Andy over you as a Godfather.”

“Fuck off, I'll be a great uncle to Paris.” Gabe snorts, long limbs loose and bent over the table. Pete feels tiny against him, he always has. “Seriously though, me and Erin have a big house; if you guys ever need to come and stay, or you and Patrick need a little alone time, you're welcome at ours.”

Pete nods his head. He wants to go back to playing mini golf with his friend instead of a conversation like this, simply because it overwhelms him. He's never really thought himself worth the friendships he's built up over the years.

They fuck around a little while longer, and man, Pete feels like a kid cutting class. He hasn't had this much fun in forever; he's forever eighteen when Gabe's around and it's easy to forget they're both married now, both real-life adults.

“Look after yourself,” Gabe says when they say goodbye. He pulls Pete into a hug that has his toes dangling off the ground before letting go. Pete wanders home, wonders what to expect when he gets there.

Patrick's in high, high spirits, which is off putting. Still, Pete lets Patrick pull him down into a kiss, puts his hands over his stomach and feels around for their child.

“He's sleeping,” Patrick says, when Pete can't feel Paris. “I swear that nesting shit finally kicked in today. I've, like, cleaned everything. I packed away all the baby clothes we got, I re-did the hospital bag. Do you think that means the baby's coming?”

“I think we'll know when Paris wants out.” Pete strokes his fingers down the stretched fabric of Patrick's shirt. “Don't overdo it.”

“I won't.” Patrick leans up again, pulling Pete in tighter. “I also have a surprise for you. Like, to make up for fucking your life up recently.”

“What is it? Are you bribing me with something?” Pete lets Patrick walk them across the room to the computer, waiting on his answer.

“It's not a bribe, it's just something to get you out of the house when I go into mega-bitch mode again. You know that's inevitable.” Patrick brings up an email and then turns the screen so Pete can read a confirmation email about a season ticket for the Bulls. Pete stares at it, and then up at Patrick's face, waiting for the catch. “I pulled some strings because I know a guy that works at admin, so you've skipped the waiting list.”

“What the fuck? You got me a season ticket for the Bulls...” Pete stares at the screen with squinted eyes, not quite believing it. He’s been on the waiting list for years. “This is a joke, right?”

“No joke.  I wanted to do something nice, but I'm physically incapable of doing anything right now so it couldn't be sex.” Patrick sits down opposite Pete, closing the lid of the laptop. “Sex or basketball, I knew my options.”

“That's a ton of money.”

“Yeah, but you're worth it,” Patrick looks away uncomfortably for a moment, before his eyes fix suddenly to Pete, sharp and blue from behind his glasses. “I was thinking it should be a regular thing, you know? Like, when Paris is older you two could go together. Aren't dads supposed to take their sons to sports?”

“I thought we were anti stereotypical family dynamics?” Pete's mouth is quirking up into a smile though, because he likes that idea. As happy as he is with Patrick, part of him will always be a little disappointed that they won't get married; that he won't have that cliched family life that he grew up with. It's stupid, he knows, because he wasn't even all that happy as a child, but nostalgia always hits with a twist irrationality.

“You can bond with him all you like so long as you're not expecting me to have dinner on the table when you get back,” Patrick says. “Chances are I'll be on tour, anyway.”

“Maybe.” Pete stares at Patrick's face, wondering what he's thinking about that. “Let's not argue about that. Let me revel in the fact I'm a fucking season ticket owner. People wait years for that, Patrick.”

“I have my connections.” Patrick bats a casual hand. “This guarantees you can't leave me now though. I'm giving you a kid _and_ a season ticket, you'd have to be brutally cruel to dump me after that.”

“Yeah, definitely no plans to dump you now,” Pete jokes, but he leans over, kisses Patrick soft mouth once, twice and another three times before Patrick pushes him away with a red face and swollen lips.

 

Patrick is not doing well by the time he's hitting thirty-six weeks. Pete’s stress levels are being tested by every anxious moment Patrick has; the fact that his anemia has improved slightly, only to be replaced with low blood pressure. A few times he ends up working from home because he doesn't trust Patrick alone. He gets dizzy and light-headed and he nearly passed out in the shower a few days back.

“What do you think I'm gonna do,” Patrick says, clutching onto Pete's shoulders, his eyes flickering shut at his latest turn. “This happens to a ton of people in the third trimester, it's not anything to worry about.”

“You always say that, then you end up getting chewed out during your next appointment.” Pete responds, pushing Patrick down gently, so that he's sitting on the couch.

“I've phoned the doctor, Pete. She says I just need to make sure I walk around every so often, to not lay on my back or move too quick. It's not a big deal.” Patrick’s taking even breaths as he opens his eyes. He looks at Pete and then huffs loudly.

“I swear I spend my life worrying about you. You never do as you're told.” Pete hates this; not being able to physically understand means he pretty much loses every battle Patrick puts up. “Will you please just stay sitting down for a little while at least?”

“Fine.” Pete watches Patrick do as he's told for now, taking Pete's hand and pressing it to his stomach. “Come here and talk to your devil child.”

Pete rubs where Patrick's laying his hand, feeling Paris kick out against his palm. “I don't think I'll ever get over this. Feeling him.”

Patrick laughs, bad mood dissipating as Pete rubs and talks to Paris. “Just wait until he's screaming at three am and you're having to get up with him. This is what that's like, only he's pushed my internal organs out of the way to make room.”

“I can't wait.” Pete leans up, kisses Patrick's nose and then his stomach, leaning in when he feels Patrick's fingers slide to his scalp, combing through his hair softly. Patrick makes a disagreeable noise in the back of his throat, but doesn't say anything else.

That night Patrick climbs onto the bed beside Pete with a box in his hands. “I wanna go through some photos with you,” he says, looking Pete in the eye, lips pursed.

“You don't have to show me anything you're not comfortable sharing,” Pete says, when he sees the nervous look on Patrick's face. He helps him find a comfortable position on the bed, trying to keep his eyes away from the photos.

“I want Paris to see one day too, so. I just... I feel like if I show you now we never have to deal with it again.” Slowly Patrick starts to pull photos from the box. Some are from family vacations; he's the smallest in the photos, hidden beneath baseball caps and hunched shoulders. Then there's some later ones, where he was trying to figure himself out in college.

“Woah, check those fucking mutton chops out!” Pete says, plucking the photo from Patrick's hands and holding it up. “They're fucking awesome!”

“Testosterone did wonders for my facial hair,” Patrick laughs, crawling over to sit beside Pete. His stomach presses to Pete's side and Pete puts a hand against the curve of it. “People that have known me then and now always seem to think I'm a completely different person. It's weird and I guess I do look different, but it's still me. I just feel like a happier version of that Patrick, at least I did before this whole baby-growing business.”

“It's not always easy for other people to realize that you’re the same person. But you're still so cute in this photo.” Pete holds it up beside the Patrick next to him, watching him mirror the same facial expression. “I still see you.”

“You're the fucking best. I'm glad we're fake married,” Patrick says, throwing his arms over Pete's shoulders. Pete falls back against the bed, photos flying in all directions. He's not really sure what he done, but Patrick's smiling into his neck like it’s a good thing.

 

Patrick goes a week past his due date without much movement from Paris. Patrick gets increasingly pissed off, eating spicy curries and practically forcing himself to fuck Pete, in the hopes of kickstarting the delivery. Pete goes to work one day to see Patrick looking heavy and miserable as he eats a bowl of pineapple. Pete doesn't ask, just assumes it's another rumoured inducing technique.

Then, Pete’s getting rudely awakened from a sound sleep by Patrick shoving at his shoulder. “Babe. Pete. _Pete!_ ” Pete sits up, grumping at the sound of his name, blinking up at Patrick standing over him. “So, I either pissed myself or my waters just broke. Chances are it's the second.”

“Oh fuck,” Pete's suddenly awake and his chest suddenly starts thrumming with excitable nerves. He flings the bedsheets back and then stands up in front of Patrick. “What do we do now?”

Patrick shrugs his shoulder. “Have a baby, I guess.”

 

Labor is nowhere near as exciting as Pete expected, not from the get-go. Patrick cramps up every so often with acute pain, squeezing Pete's hand and breathing through it, but then it disappears. They were supposed to be counting the minutes between them, but they lost count on the way to the hospital. Patrick puked twice in the car ride over, Pete’s not sure how he’s gonna get it cleaned in time for when they leave.

Pete's been ordered to help Patrick walk around the room they've been given, to ease the ache, but it doesn't seem to help. According to the doctor, who examined Patrick last, they're still a way off the home straight, no even ready enough for an epidural.

“I know you thought I was being hyperbolic when I compared this to _Alien_ , but-” Patrick takes Pete's hand and puts it to his stomach. It's tight, like a hard fist, and then Pete sees a ripple of movement. “This is just like the worst fucking thing ever. What if I bleed out and die? You know that can happen with anemia.”

“Just shut up and breathe,” is all Pete can say. Mostly Patrick digs his fingers tight to Pete’s arms. Pete's not sure what’s happening, or when it's supposed to be happening, but whenever he finally calms down between the contractions, Patrick starts crying out again.

“I want my mom,” Patrick says, a few hours later. He's been doing this since the early hours, and they're both pretty exhausted. Pete just wants them to have Paris in their arms now, he wants to meet his kid.

“There's a phone at front desk you can use,” the nurse says, overhearing them from checking the machine Patrick's hooked up to. Pete likes to watch the heartbeat, likes to see the numbers instead of Patrick's face.

“She doesn't know,” Pete tells her, stroking Patrick's damp hair when his face screws up and he cries out again. “He didn't want me telling his family so they don't know. I don't want to tell her now, she already hates me.”

“Oh,” she sounds surprised, and looks to Patrick awkwardly, who tries to steady his practiced breathing to stare at Pete with his wide eyes.

“It hurts. I want my mom, Pete. I don't know why, I just do,” he says and that finalizes it. He waits until the contractions are over before he goes to phone her. It's maybe the most awkward conversation of his life. Never again does he want to explain to Patrick's mom, who doesn't really like him anyway, that a) he's knocked her child up and b) they've been hiding it from her until now. She's too shocked to really shout at him though, and instead says she's leaving to get there as soon as possible.

His mom doesn't get there in time, but it doesn't matter because Pete doesn't remember much about it anyway. Paris turns up eventually and Patrick passes up his opportunity to hold him, to let Pete have the first touch. Pete has to sit down and he thinks he's probably crying all over the kid's face, but somehow it doesn't matter.

When Patrick's mom finally gets there, Pete’s kind of wishing he'd never called her. She's got Paris in her arms, rocking him back and forth at the base of Patrick's hospital bed, cooing at the newborn.

"You look just like your mom when she was born," she says, and Pete looks to Patrick, who looks tired but not enough to stop his eyes from rolling. Pete goes to comment but Patrick shakes his head.

"I can't deal with arguing right now," Patrick says softly and Pete nods, stroking his hair. It's weird, very weird. To be here with Patrick and a baby. “But mom, please don't misgender me in front of my own baby. He's literally an hour old, he doesn't need to deal with your bullshit already.”

Patrick's mom gives him a filthy look, but she stops talking at the baby, stops comparing him to Patrick and instead gently rocks him side to side, kissing his forehead before handing him back to Pete.

“I'm upset that you didn't tell me you were having a child together, but I know we don't make things easy for you,” his mom says softly as Pete tries to deal with the fact he has a tiny baby in his arms that belongs to him. He looks up to see Patrick's mom stroking her fingers through Patrick's hair, staring down at the ring on Patrick’s finger. “I think there’s a lot you haven’t told me. Don't shut me out now.”

“I won't,” Patrick lies, because once he's no longer encumbered from labor, he'll be quick to irritate again, and nothing upsets him more than his family's casual ignorance. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“You want me to tell your dad?” she asks and Patrick nods his head, not wriggling his head away when she kisses his forehead. Pete watches her leave before he turns to Patrick, handing Paris over gently, and watching Patrick adjust him in his arms.

“I don't even care that I had to have stitches right now. But, uh, the doctor's think I might need to have a blood transfusion. I think I lost a lot of blood,” Patrick says on a very small laugh. Pete gives him an odd look, but slides an arm over his shoulder all the same, staring down at Paris sleeping.

“But you didn't, like, hemorrhage or anything. I wasn't looking, but it didn't seem so bad.” If Pete’s honest he doesn't really remember much at all, just a vague dizziness before he heard a crying baby; _his_ crying baby.

“I know, but they told me it might be a possibility because of the anemia, because it was so low already. This is the last part, the last bad thing and then we can move on.” Patrick looks as white as a sheet, but he has done since the very beginning. “He seems a lot smaller now he's not inside me.”

“I feel like I'm gonna break him,” Pete admits, placing his fingers against the warmth of Paris. He's so Patrick right now, from what Pete can see, but he's pretty fucking glad about that. The rest of his feelings are pretty indescribable, he can't process any of it.

“You should tell everyone. Tell everyone on your twitter about Paris,” Patrick says softly, he twists his head to look up at Pete, who gives a shocked expression back. He's sort of forgotten that people exist outside of this bubble. “I don't wanna hide him.”

“You want me to say it was a surrogate?” Pete asks. No one's found out, and Pete thinks no one really suspected this would happen. Patrick's allowed Pete to take the odd photo of him, which clears up any rumors about them breaking up. Pete finds it weird how into the relationship some of Patrick's fans are. It's never quite as romantic as real life, but he likes to retweet fanart of them, just to annoy Patrick.

“No one else is getting credit for what I just went through. No pictures. Just the name, just that we're happy.” Patrick looks happy, and Pete’s already overjoyed, but he feels even better knowing that Patrick looks finally at peace for the first time in months. He looks a wreck, but he looks happy.

Patrick gets his transfusion a few minutes later, and Paris is placed in a bassinet beside his bed. Pete just wants to keep staring at his baby, but instead he tweets the news before muting his notifications, sliding from the room to phone Andy.

“So I have a kid...like a son,” Pete says the second Andy answers. He's outside the hospital, trying to remember that life's gone on for everyone else in the hours he's just spend with Patrick.

“What? No way, congrats, man!” Andy sounds so excited, his voicing hitching slightly and it makes Pete’s already stiff muscles stretch out into a wider grin. “How'd it go?”

“Good. Seven lbs eight ounces. Patrick's having a blood transfusion because they're worried about his anemia, but other than that it all went well. Paris looks just like Patrick, man. He's like a baby boy version of him and my head is spinning and I can't stop talking and like my nerves have already got me walking in circles and--”

“Breath, Wentz. Take a breath and enjoy the moment,” Andy says softly. “I can't believe you have a kid now, I can't believe how happy I am about it.”

Pete laughs, suddenly stopping to rest his back against the wall. He takes a deep breath and looks right up into the sky, staring at nothing in particular. “Patrick looked really happy, Andy. I was worried he wouldn't be, but he is. He's so happy he's not even pissed off about having a transfusion, that doesn't sound like him at all.”

“Yeah, well. He's got a lot to be happy about,” Andy tells Pete, who finally starts breathing properly again. “So stop talking to me and go back to him.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last part! Thanks for all the kind words :D

Patrick's still having his transfusion when Pete gets back to his hospital room. It's not particularly exciting; he's just staring down at Paris in the bassinet, his arm outstretched with the cannula tucked into his vein.

“Gross,” Pete says, looking at Patrick's bruised arm before sitting in the chair between Patrick and their baby. “How's it going?”

“Okay. They want to keep me in for the next few days just in case--” Patrick waves the hand that isn't outstretched. “Worse case scenario is I start bleeding heavily so they want me under observation. It's precautionary, it's not a big deal.”

“Are you being honest?” Pete asks, because he's still not sure whether he trusts Patrick enough to tell him everything. He doesn't want to argue when they're still caught up in the post-birth haze, but he wants to know exactly what's happening.

“Pete, chill. I'm doing as well as I can, alright?” Patrick lifts his hand to run his fingers through Pete's hair. “I'm gonna let the doctors do their job and I'm not gonna complain because then maybe I'll get to go home earlier.”

“You puked in the car, I'm gonna have to get it cleaned before we can take him home,” Pete says, suddenly remembering again. He peeks into the bassinet, but Paris is asleep.

“Sorry,” Patrick says dismissively. Pete looks over to see that he's shut his eyes weakly; pale lids and pale lips. He doesn't have that post-birth glow that Pete's read all about. “How do people do this more than once? It's _horrible_.”

“I don't know... I guess they figure the outcome is worth the pain.” Pete looks over at Paris again, touching his tiny nose, stroking down his cheek as he sleeps. “Most people don't need a blood transfusion after, though.”

“I'm not most people,” Patrick laughs softly, the sound catching in the back of his throat like it pains him. Pete feels physical pangs in his heart that he can't stop the pain that Patrick's going through right now. “Can we agree right here that I'm not doing this again?”

“I don't want to experience the last few months ever again. I'd sign another one of your weird little contracts if you were up to writing one out right now.” Pete's smiling down at Patrick, who pulls him in for a kiss, pressing their lips together briefly.

“I'm glad we're agreed on that, but dude, you need to go home and shower. You look rough.” Patrick pushes him away, pale forehead creasing up in concern as he stares Pete up and down. “They're probably gonna kick you out soon anyway.”

Pete nods, standing up. He doesn't want to leave Patrick here; doesn't want to leave this place without his son, but he doesn't have a choice. “What about you?”

“I'm hardly going anywhere.” Patrick smiles again, eyesight drooping downwards. “Go on, it'll be fine.” Pete’s determined to stay a little while longer, but Patrick isn't wrong about visiting hours and it's not like Pete's missing out on anything. Just their kid, but he's wheeled back to the nursery so that Patrick can catch some sleep. Eventually, Pete leaves too, but he doesn't sleep that night. He just thinks about Patrick and their son. He scrolls through his phone, but one look at the comments on their news; both good and bad have Pete wishing he never looked in the first place.

When it comes to signing Paris' birth certificate, Patrick decides at the last moment that he doesn't want to double-barrel their son's name, but to give Vaughn as a middle name in replacement of Stumph. Pete doesn't fight it, suspects Patrick's giving him this as a way to make up for his behavior over the past few months. It's not exactly morally right, or whatever, but it's a pretty big statement and Pete understands the point Patrick's trying to make.

Patrick takes a while to recover, even when he's finally allowed home, but there's no serious setback after he's released from the hospital and within a few weeks his pallor starts to pink up again. It's fucking hard work and any conversation he has with Patrick is with lack of sleep, mostly passing a wet or dirty baby back and forth, feeding him and trying not to fall asleep.

By the time Paris is a month old, Pete's sort of got his brain back in gear again. Patrick has coped maybe a million times better than Pete figured since the baby's birth. Pete always knew Patrick's issues were based more in the pregnancy than the having a child, but he still worried Patrick would continue to freak out after the birth.

“I was worried I wouldn't be able to love him or that I'd end up with postnatal depression or something, but honestly once he was on the outside everything else seemed to slide into place,” Patrick says. He looks about as tired as Pete feels, but they've sort of settled into a routine. “I'm still not looking like the Patrick I want to be, but I feel a ton better than I did pre-birth.”

 

The next few months go like lightning. Pete works pretty much full-time, Patrick staying at home with Paris, sticking to the agreement that he'd take six months off after the birth. Pete can't really say that Patrick doesn't work; he's always writing between Paris' naps and feedings, but it's not at the forefront of his mind anymore.

Patrick makes good on his word and he uses the time to try and mold himself back into the Patrick he was prior to the accidental knock up. He slims down and he starts looking happier, starts dressing the way he did before, just with added baby vomit and drool. They muddle their way through parenting and Patrick's way more confident at it than Pete, which strikes Pete weird, but he doesn't say anything.

He starts to worry though, starts to let dark thoughts in when he's kept them out for so long. He's been medicated as long as he can remember; been stable since before he met Patrick, but he starts to feel himself slipping as Paris turns eight months old. It doesn't help that Gabe recently flew in for a visit and left them all with a cold, or that Pete's been commissioned to work for a fucking nightmare client; constantly changing their mind on the direction and location of the shoot. Patrick starts staring at him in concern, but doesn't broach the subject and Pete lays awake every night staring at the ceiling, trying to keep his breathing steady, anxiety paralysing him enough that he can't even move to tend to Paris when he starts crying. He waits for Patrick to wake up and see to their son, ignoring the pissed off whisper he gets for not helping out with the baby.

The next morning Patrick's on the phone and Pete’s still in the bedroom, hunched over and trying to force himself up, half listening to Patrick's voice on the phone. Pete doesn't want to leave his bedroom; he wants to sleep for a few weeks and wake up new again. It's been like this a few times recently, insomnia from an anxious dread bubbling in his chest, his head unable to switch off.

Patrick must leave Paris alone for all of a second though because suddenly Pete’s ears are awash with high-pitched wailing. Pete snaps his hands over his ears, trying to block out the cacophonous noise. Paris has caught himself a bad case of separation anxiety whenever Patrick leaves his sight and it's taking its toll on all of them. It was funny at first, but the novelty's long worn off.

“Can you shut him up? I can't even fucking think straight!” Pete yells, coming out of the bedroom to see Patrick looking frazzled and trying to placate Paris with his favored stuffed toy; the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.

“I'll call you back.” Patrick hangs up his cell, looking worried as he stares at Pete. “What's the matter with you? You've barely spoken recently.”

“I'd be fine if Paris didn't start screaming every time you leave his fucking sight,” Pete says, Paris looks set to whine some more when Patrick steps away from him. Pete looks down at the grizzling baby, and then at Patrick. “You're the one that couldn't fucking deal with the pregnancy, but now you're like a goddamn pro at this and it's not fair. This should be you freaking out.”

“Sit down,” Patrick says, waiting until Pete takes a seat on the couch before lifting Paris from the walker and hitching him on his lap beside Pete. Paris quietens now that he's in Patrick's arms and Pete stares down at their baby until he feels Patrick's gentle hand on his face. “You can't really be mad at me for coping, that's not like you.”

“I'm not,” Pete confirms straight away. “I just feel like there's a ton of delayed stress and it's crashing over my head. I've been alright ever since we found out about him.” Pete slides his fingers to one of Paris' droopy cheeks, smiling when his kid looks up at him with dark eyes. “But now I have like a year's worth of anxiety sitting in my chest and I can't shift it.”

Patrick's fingers slide to the base of Pete’s spine beneath his t-shirt, his other hand keeping Paris from wriggling off his lap. “Okay,” Patrick says softly. “You've never been down since we've been together so I don't know what would help. You should go to your doctor though, for sure. See if your medication needs adjusting or switching up.”

“I know,” Pete admits, “I've been on a lowered dose for about a year or so, but I think I might need to up it again. I'm sorry. I didn't want to fuck things up for us.”

“Don't be sorry.” Patrick's fingers rub a little harder. “We went from casual fucking to a baby in the space of eighteen months. That's pretty life altering.”

“It was never casual fucking,” Pete cuts in, because he was pretty much hooked on Patrick the moment he walked into Pete’s studio two years ago. Pete remembers the bleached her and the neat little figure, the fake smile and the sweet laugh. “But yeah. I think I need some time to recoup. Nip it in the bud or whatever, work's been stressing me out. And, you know, the baby.”

“He's hard work,” Patrick laughs, fingers brushing across Paris' light brown hair. “So what are you wanting to do? I can't just pass Paris off on someone until you get better, I know we're not following the rulebooks, but I think even that's too edgy for us.”

Pete laughs even though he wants to cry, he hates himself a bit too much, for not coping, for being a tiny bit mad that Patrick's better now and he's the one falling apart. He's not used to it being this way around, he doesn't see Patrick wanting to stay with him when he sees him like this.

“Look, I can take Paris up to my mom's for a week, I told her I'd visit soon so it makes sense. That's not enough time for your medication to suddenly start working, but it should give you some time alone if that's what you need. I don't know, you need to tell me what's going to work for you.” Pete wants him to stay, but he can't deal with Paris right now; can't stabilize himself and take care of a baby. “If you don't wanna be alone, maybe Andy could come and stay.”

“I don't know. I'm probably overreacting. I'm being so fucking selfish.” Pete puts his head in his hands, but Patrick shushes him, kissing his shoulder before lifting Pete's head up as he passes the baby over. Paris watches to make sure Patrick isn't going anywhere before giggling happily at Pete. “I love him so much, Patrick. I just can't deal right now.”

“Then it's a good job I didn't abandon you with him like I threatened.” Patrick keeps an arm over Pete’s waist, tucking his forehead down to Pete’s shoulder. “You need a timeout, that's all. I planned on seeing my mom at some point anyway. I can phone Brendon and tell him you won't be coming in for the next week, but he's keeping his own schedule these days. It's better we sort it now than run into an even bigger problem a few months down the line.”

“Why are you so awesome?” Pete asks, genuinely curious. He forgets all about how goddawful Patrick was when he was pregnant. He's so sweet right now, conscientious and kind and Pete almost wants to cry.

“We both know that's not true,” Patrick shrugs, leaning up to kiss Pete’s cheek and then his jaw, one hand sliding to Pete’s greasy hair. “You're gonna be okay. This is just a little blip, just a speed bump.”

Paris needs a diaper change after that so Patrick takes him off to the nursery to clean him up. The apartment is small enough that Pete can hear him talking to the baby; Patrick doesn't do baby voices and instead bores Paris to sleep with content rambling. It's not often that Paris willingly sleeps in the nursery; they like having him in the bedroom, and with the way he screams for Patrick right now, all he has to do is sleepily rest his fingers against Paris' cheek during the night to calm him down.

Patrick curls up with him on the couch whilst Paris naps, resting his full weight on top of Pete. He's doing it deliberately, so that Pete can feel him, and it works. It helps soothe Pete’s tangled nerves a little. Pete doesn't speak, just strokes his fingers down Patrick's spine until he reaches the base and starts the loop again.

 

Patrick is gone for a week and a half as Pete gets himself together again. They don't talk because Pete thinks he'll probably beg him to come back despite needing the solitude. He gets his medication adjusted, and it's gonna take a while, but without the screaming baby he's able to see himself as less of a wreck. He attempts to steady his sleep cycle, while Andy comes around every day to help clean the apartment and make sure Pete's eating.

Pete's sitting on the couch when Patrick comes into the apartment, Paris on his hip and a bag over his shoulder. He smiles at Pete, like he's really fucking glad to be home. Pete smiles back, hoping it doesn't look too pathetic.

“Hey look, it's your dad,” Patrick says, turning so that Paris can see Pete. He walks over and lets Pete take their baby, letting him settle before leaning up and kissing Pete on the mouth, stroking his face. “You doing alright?”

“Better,” Pete admits. He looks down at Paris squirming, big dark eyes set in a face that is pretty much all Patrick. He puts his hand to the back of his soft head, stroking light brown hair as Patrick leans against him. “Fuck, I missed you two. Sorry I got like that.”

“It's fine, Pete, really. I'm glad you felt able to tell me – that I was able to help.” Patrick takes Pete's hand and squeeze it a few moments before chucking Paris under the chin, watching his large head swivel to find him. “We had a great time at grandma's house.”

_"Really?"_ Pete asks, holding onto Paris when he starts to squirm. He thought they'd have longer before Paris started wriggling so much, but he's never still, even at eight months. He's already on his way to crawling.

“She only offended me, like, three times during the entire stay. I think that's a record.” Patrick smiles, and he rests his head against Pete's for a moment, before looking up. “You look tired though, not sleeping?”

“On and off. Kinda restless, I guess,” Pete shrugs, but Patrick looks up at him unimpressed.

“Go back to bed,” he says softly, scooping Paris up and then helping Pete up from the couch. “Go on. Paris and I will fix something to eat and then we'll join you."

Pete nods, kissing Paris on the forehead and ruffling Patrick's hair before heading back to their bedroom. He shuts his eyes, listening to the low tone of Patrick's quiet voice, Paris making loud noises occasionally. Patrick comes back into the room ten minutes later, dropping Paris down into Pete's arms before leaving the room again. Paris looks at Pete indignantly before he starts crying, face scrunching up and turning red at the apparent abandonment.

“Shh,” Pete says, holding him around the middle, and bringing out whatever stuffed toy he finds closest. Their bed is full of them these days. “It's alright, he'll be back in a minute.” Pete fusses the baby with the soft koala he finds and Paris reaches out for it, clumsy baby hands dropping the toy onto his lap before he picks it up and starts sucking on an ear.

Patrick comes back a few minutes later, Paris babbling softly as he drops the tray onto the bedside table. “I made you some French toast. You look like you need the carbs.”

“Andy made sure I ate,” Pete says, but his stomach rumbles at the smell of sweet toasted bread, and he's not disappointed when Patrick hands him the plate. Pete bites into the food, watching Patrick pull his jeans off and slide into a pair of Pete's sweats before grabbing the bottle he's just warmed for Paris and falling onto the bed.

“This is fucking tasty,” Pete says, feeling butter drip down his chin as he chews the food. Paris has abandoned the koala, settling in Patrick's arms for his bottle instead, dark lashes blinking tiredly over his large eyes. Pete stares at his kid and then at Patrick, feeling calm for the first time in a while.

“I aim to please,” Patrick says softly, and he's got that dopey look in his eyes he always denies. They both figured Patrick would be the tougher parent, the one that would be a little more detached, but it's sort of ended up the other way around. “We missed you, we're glad you're feeling better.”

“Me too,” Pete purses his lips before continuing. “I've been stable for years, I'm sorry I freaked you out.”

“It's fine.” Patrick looks down at Paris, helping him hold the bottle. “I know I was awful to live with when I was pregnant, so just let me look after you for now.”

“You were pretty exhausting,” Pete admits and Patrick smiles at him, scrunching his nose up. “But I'm feeling okay. If we keep things together over the next few days, just the two of us... or three.” He looks at Paris falling asleep against Patrick's chest.

“Four of us. Don't forget Bowie,” Patrick warns, seeing their dog looking up from the floor. Pete nods, dropping the plate onto the bedside table. He crawls over, pressing his face to Patrick's side. Patrick puts his spare hand over Pete's shoulder, bringing him in close, Paris between them both.

Pete must fall asleep because he wakes up some time later to Patrick sitting up beside him, Paris asleep between them both. They've not exactly been the best at keeping Paris in the nursery, which Pete's fairly certain will bite them both in the ass when he hits toddlerhood, but it works well for them now.

“Hey sleepy,” Patrick says, watching Pete. Pete blinks groggily and goes to sit up, but Patrick shakes his head, gently lifting up over Paris, straddling Pete's waist. His hands go to Pete's chest, resting palms down for a moment as he stares at Pete.

"You know, later on, I'm gonna put Paris in the nursery and I'm gonna shut our bedroom door to Bowie, and you know what I'm gonna do?” Patrick's grinding down, letting Pete's hands slide to his hips. He has a fairly good idea, but he gets what Patrick's saying. "Gonna fuck my boyfriend. We've had nothing but mediocre sex for months now, maybe you deserve a treat.”

“It's not been terrible.” Pete points out, but they used to be pretty adventurous before the pregnancy and it's been less than awesome since then. They haven't done it in about a month now. Pete lifts up, Patrick scrabbling onto his shoulders as Pete turns them until he's on top. "Dunno if I can wait till tonight. Plus this might help, you know, me get better. Help my anxiety."

“Anything to make you feel good,” Patrick puts his hand out, palming Pete over his boxers before he drops his hand down and shakes his head. “Sorry, you're gonna have to move Paris. I'm not doing it in front of our son.”

Pete nods, scooping the baby up and crossing the apartment to place him gently into the crib, their dog following him from the room. He scoots quickly over into the main part, watching Bowie try to sneak into the open door of their bedroom again before Pete quickly shuts him out.

Pete jumps back onto the bed, scooting down so he's sprawled face down over Patrick's belly. He's back to the weight he was before Paris now, but he's a little more soft. It doesn't bother Pete, but it's the latest thing Patrick's been complaining about. Pete lifts Patrick's shirt, exposing his belly, and waits for the litany of complaints.

“I thought they'd be fucking faint by now.” Pete laughs as Patrick's fingers press against the stretch marks on his own stomach. He pushes Patrick's hands away, putting them against his own head, feeling Patrick tighten his hands in his hair.

“You've always had them, they're just more noticeable now,” Pete says, licking a thin line up one raised mark and feeling Patrick tense beneath him. His hands slide to Patrick's hips in a warning to keep himself still.

“Didn't have them like this,” Patrick mutters. “At least you're the only one that sees me naked.”

“I hope that's true,” Pete murmurs, crawling up Patrick's body. Patrick bites down on Pete's lip when their mouths meet, his legs curling up against Pete's hips.

"Like I have time to cheat on you," Patrick says and it's not really the nicest way to put it, but Pete trusts him and he thinks getting pregnant has pretty much turned Patrick off any dude that isn't Pete for life. It's probably a good thing, because excluding Pete, all of Patrick's ex-boyfriends have been huge assholes.

Pete kisses him, tongue sliding wet and hot into Patrick's mouth, hands curving over Patrick's jaw, elbows keeping him propped up. Patrick's switched over to the depo now, but it's only been in recent months that he's felt confident fucking around without condoms again.

Pete's enjoying it, making out with Patrick, feeling his soft skin and the way his body heats up against Pete, allowing himself to be pressed down into the mattress. When Patrick's hand slides down to touch Pete's cock, Pete suddenly grabs him, pinning his wrists up against the pillows.

Patrick laughs, bucking up beneath him. He doesn't fight it, doesn't fight Pete's fingers tight to his wrist, or his teeth sinking into his shoulder. Pete's so into it, Patrick and Patrick's body, he's just willing his own to cooperate.

He tries to get Patrick so hot and bothered, tries to force his dick to remember that this is what he really wants, the best thing in the world, because Patrick's red lips are plump, and his pale body is starting to dampen and pink up beneath Pete and he's finally letting Pete to see him naked again and Pete can't even get it up.

He unpins Patrick's wrists, feeling Patrick's hands immediately curl into Pete's hair, nails scratching at his scalp, teeth nibbling at Pete's ear lobe as Pete curls fingers into Patrick's sweats, fingers rubbing in quick motions over his clit. Patrick gasps, going lose for a few moments before his hands tighten in Pete's hair.

“Uh fuck, Pete. This isn't... Supposed to be about me,” Patrick gasps, bucking up roughly when Pete moves his fingers down and into his cunt. “But continue, fuck.”

Pete laughs tightly at that. It's not a chore getting Patrick off, but he's frustrated that this isn't getting him hard. Usually he's having to pace himself, so that he gets to finish inside Patrick and not during foreplay, but his new dosage is fucking with his body and he can't get hard.

“Don't you wanna fuck me?” Patrick asks, riding Pete's fingers, lifting his hips to help the motions. “I'll let you put it in my ass.” Patrick suggests, and fuck, Pete wants to come at that, even if every time he has fucked Patrick that way he spent the next few hours whining about it. It's hot, mainly because Patrick let's him do it, and he's so soft and warm after, despite the grumpy motor mouth.

"Want me to fuck you in the ass?" Pete says into Patrick's jaw, buying himself time. He slides his fingers from Patrick's cunt to further back, teasing his ass, pressing the tip of one finger in and feeling Patrick's fingers curl into his shoulders.

“Do it,” Patrick says, legs curling over Pete's hips, trying to pull him in. He's clenching tight but Pete pushes harder, sliding two fingers up roughly. Patrick groans, throwing his head back, gasping and biting at his lip as Pete circles his other hand over his clit, thumbing it roughly and watching as Patrick falls apart beneath him. He sucks at Patrick's neck, keeping his own body up and away from pressing Patrick down. He doesn't want Patrick knowing.

Pete pulls his fingers out and away when Patrick stops grinding up against him. He slides his fingers from Patrick's shorts and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“You can still do it,” Patrick says to him softly. Pete likes his voice just after he's come, slow and slurred and a little vulnerable. “Or I can just suck you off, I don't mind.”

"It's okay," Pete says, looking down at his body and groaning in frustration. He doesn't see the point in hiding it now. “I really want to but the pills-- I can't get it up.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Patrick says, "must be bad if even an offer of anal can't get it up.” It's a joke, so Pete laughs, even if he feels embarrassed. Patrick senses it though, and he rolls over onto his side against Pete. “It's fine, Pete. You know I don't care about your dick, you didn't have to hide it from me.”

Pete snorts, staring up at the ceiling, knowing how red he is from embarrassment. “Just because you can live without dick doesn't mean I can.”

“I like it, apart from the times it knocks me up, but well,” Patrick shrugs, and then tucks his head briefly to Pete's chest. “I wouldn't really change what happened, having Paris with you. So, you know.”

“I know,” Pete says, but then he falters because he's so frustrated, so mad at himself because he's been doing well for years now. He scrubs a hand over his face, but can't stop the sobs that start to shake his body. “I'm so scared of fucking things up.”

Patrick rolls onto his back, but pulls Pete to him, pushing Pete down into his chest and sliding his arms around him. "Shh, it's okay. Don't get upset, it's okay.”

Pete sinks into Patrick's chest, allowing himself to fall apart; to cry it out. Patrick's body is warm beneath him and he bears Pete's weight, fingers soft as he strokes through Pete's hair, kissing at his temple and holding him close.

Pete's thin with energy, completely wiped when the crying jag is over and he settles to Patrick's chest, staying quiet and still, Patrick's hands constantly roaming softly over Pete's hair, thumb riding softly beneath Pete’s ear.

Pete drifts off into a sleep with Patrick holding him. He wakes up briefly when Patrick wriggles from beneath him, to tend to Paris crying from the nursery. Pete goes back to sleep, rolling over to the warm spot Patrick's vacated, pressing his tired face into the pillow.

He's dead awake the next time he wakes up, but the bed is empty beside him. He rubs at his eyes, head dizzy as he puts his feet on the ground. He takes a few solid breaths before stumbling from their bedroom and out into the main area.

Patrick's sitting on the floor with Paris in his lap, a toy keyboard in front of him. Pete watches from the doorway for a moment, watching Patrick guide the baby's fingers over the keys, giggling at the tinny noises the sounds make.

“Still think you're making a musician out of him?” Pete's voice comes out husky as Patrick turns his head to see Pete. He smiles, kissing Paris softly on the head as Pete stumbles over beside him, taking a seat and grabbing Paris when he starts to wriggle from Patrick's lap. Patrick scrambles up from the floor, tucking his feet beneath himself on the couch.

"Paris loves coming to the studio with me," Patrick insists, though Pete has to wonder how the techs feel about Patrick turning up with their kid. Patrick's been in two minds, desperate to stick to his guns and keep his career going, but also enjoying being a parent way more than either of them anticipated. He booked studio time to clear his head of the melodies he's had ticking over and he's been working on some friends' albums, but he's been taking Paris with him every time. As far as Pete's aware, things have been going well.

“Hmm, I think he likes being in my studio too.” Pete presses a kiss to his baby's round cheek, getting a chubby slap in the face in return. He pulls Paris away and plops him down into his lap, suddenly soothed by having his family here, breathing in the smell of his kid. "Sorry about earlier."

“Don't be, I cried at you constantly when I was pregnant. I'm on a career break right now, so you can actually depend on me for once. I won't be my usual flaky self.” Patrick picks up a soft bunny he finds on the couch, his fingers sliding over the floppy ears. “I don't want you to think you can't talk to me.”

“I know I can talk to you. This is just a bad reaction to bottling things up. I went from having a semi-serious relationship to a kid in a year and nothing went wrong, not really, and I've usually fucked things up by now. This is just a huge freak-out.”

Patrick nods, “I'm not good at relationships either but-” he shrugs before putting an arm over Pete's shoulder and kissing his cheek. “You know I don't like doing gushy feelings or talking about stuff, but you are literally the best thing that ever happened to me and so you've got to stay in sync with me, so we can look after each other.”

“I know,” Pete says, licking his lips. “Just kinda sucks that you've now got two cry babies to deal with instead of one.” Patrick laughs at that, not disputing it and Pete pinches his side, finding himself more and more relaxed the longer they're together. They sit like that for a while, and Pete can't help but think his life has taken a really strange route in the last year. He could never imagine this for himself.

“Also, you never guess who fucking started talking at my mom's house yesterday?” Patrick says after a while, pulling Paris up into his arms and pressing his dribble wet kisses to Pete's cheek.

Pete's eyes light up, looking at Paris stare at him with mirrored dark eyes. He's almost mad Patrick's kept this from him until now. “Ugh, I missed him talking. What did he say?”

“He called me mama,” Patrick grimaces as he settles Paris down at their feet, watching him wriggle over to the purple blanket Pete's mom knitted for him. “In front of everyone too.”

“Oh,” Pete starts, but Patrick shrugs his shoulder. “Shit.”

“All the books say that it doesn't mean he's calling me mom, just that he's feeling out his speech, but he was looking at me when he said it. I kinda felt like he was calling me mama.” Patrick scrunches his nose up, looking at Pete.

“Did it make you feel weird?”

“It was awesome hearing him say something, but I don't know. I think if it was just the three of us I'd be okay with it, but I'd prefer we taught him Patch for now. Or for whenever he speaks. I don't know.” Patrick shakes his head, looking harassed. Pete just strokes the side of his jaw with his thumb, thinking it over.

“Damn, I can't believe I missed it.”

“You won't next time,” Patrick assures. “I swear, Pete. My mom started going on about how he only said it because it's an inbuilt reaction to knowing who your real mom is. I was so pissed off I had to go take Paris for a walk, I don't know how she manages to offend me and so many other people that regularly.”

Pete smiles as Patrick rambles and he tries to pick up a thread that Patrick's talking about, but he can't really focus enough. So he just listens as Patrick talks about his mother's constant foot-in-mouth syndrome, and having to do all the diaper and night feedings without Pete, which ultimately led to Patrick deciding that he definitely couldn't do it alone. Pete’s not really helped out at all in recent weeks, but he keeps that thought to himself.

Later that night, Pete's determined to get Paris to start calling him dad. He's balancing him on his stomach, bouncing him from under his arms, Patrick in the bed next to him. “C'mon you can't go around calling Patch mama when he doesn't even like it and then ignore me.”

Paris just gurgles, dribbling down onto his yellow sleepsuit, fingers reaching out as he stares at Pete and then Patrick. “Someone's getting jealous,” Patrick smirks from beside Pete. Sometimes it sucks when he sees that Paris only gets separation anxiety when Patrick leaves the room, but then he sees Patrick looking exhausted and drained from having a baby attached to him all day that he figures, actually, he's kinda glad he can leave for work each day and not have to listen to his kid scream like that.

“Daddy's not been feeling to good and if you really loved me you'd be soothing me with your baby talk,” Pete says again to Paris. “Say dadda. Paris, call me dadda.” Paris looks down at Pete and then laughs, amused at Pete's desperation. Pete gives up, letting Paris sit down between Patrick and himself, watching their kid roll over to dribble onto Patrick's face.

“I don't know, Pete. If you really want to be called daddy we can arrange some stuff,” Patrick says, once he's gently removed Paris from sucking on his cheek. He's got a shiny patch of baby drool on his face and Pete leans over to wipe it off.

“That would open a can of worms neither of us want to deal with,” Pete jokes and Patrick goes with it. They sit quietly for a while, Pete trying to settle Paris down between the two of them.

"Mom's threatening to pay us a visit though. She says she wants to see more of Paris,” Patrick frowns, stroking his finger gently over Paris' warm belly in soothing motions. “He sees a lot of your parents so it'll be good to have mine involved if they behave themselves.”

“They'll never be as cool as my parents,” Pete brags, and waits until Patrick nods before thinking about it more. Pete's mom loves a challenge, so when he explained they didn't want gender specific toys or clothes, she took it upon herself to knit blankets in purples, oranges and yellows. She's got super into the gender blind parenting and it's such a cool thing to witness. Pete had a fairly typical upbringing, he and his brother did soccer, his sister was into gymnastics. It wasn't a big deal or anything like that, not at the time and not to himself, but he can see how it fucked with Patrick's head going through the same thing.

“Are you going to work tomorrow?” Patrick asks, hand still massaging against Paris, who's starting to fall asleep. Pete thinks he probably ought to, he's depended on Brendon a lot since the baby was born and he shouldn't be dumping the entire work load on him.

“Yeah, it might help.” Pete says but Patrick gives him a look that suggests otherwise. “Maybe just the morning.”

“That's a good idea.” It placates Patrick for now, who gently shifts Paris into the crib attached to the bed, before wriggling closer to Pete. “Maybe we can do something when you finish. I'm gonna go to the studio tomorrow, try and get some more stuff written, but then we can go to the park.”

Pete nods his head and then peeks at Patrick. “That sounds like something you'd hate. A year ago you'd have said that kind of situation would drive you insane.”

Patrick wriggles, suddenly uncomfortable. “People change. I didn't think anything would be more important than music to me.”

“But then Paris came along.”

“Yeah and you.” Patrick looks away embarrassed, but Pete smiles at him and strokes Patrick's bare arm. “I'm still going back on tour when the record's finished, but I guess my priorities have shifted.”

The next morning takes a lot of effort on Pete's part. “If we didn't have a baby I'd suck you off in the shower, I'd let you come in my mouth,” Patrick tells him, beckoning Pete toward the bathroom. Paris is propped up in the highchair, slamming his hand into the pureed carrots Patrick's dished up.

“If I wasn't so medicated I'd probably be able to get it up at those words,” Pete says back, leaning into Patrick, feeling his arms wrap around from behind. “One day I'll have a boner again.”

“And when you do I swear I'll sit on it, but right now you need to shower.” Patrick pulls away, shutting the door behind himself. Pete falls into the shower, feeling his mood improve as he cleans up, he even manages to brush his teeth, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looks tired and his stubble has grown in, but it's been worse. He's been a million times lower than this in the past.

He tucks a towel around his waist, wandering back out into the main part to see Patrick scooping orange goop into Paris' mouth, typing out an email with his spare hand on his phone.

“Mama,” Paris gurgles, “ma-ma.”

“Hmm,” Patrick says, scooping the carrots from beneath the baby's chin when he tucks his phone away. Pete smiles, drying himself off in their open bedroom as he listens. “Yanno, you gotta stop with the mama, Paris. That's not what we agreed on.”

“Mama,” Paris says again, laughing and turning his head away at the last spoonful of carrots.

“He's really pushing for mama, huh?” Pete says. Patrick looks up and nods, but he doesn't seem down about it. Pete stands in front of Paris, looking into his orange smeared mouth as he coos at him. “Say dadda to me.”

Paris looks at Pete and then Patrick, sticking his fingers in his mouth instead. “I think that's a no,” Patrick says, laughing. “Are you sure you're alright to work?”

“Yeah I'll be fine, but let me know what you're doing this afternoon, okay?” Pete asks and Patrick nods his head, dropping the spoon and leaning up to kiss Pete goodbye. Pete suddenly feels a lot less strong when he leaves the warm comfort of the apartment.

He's at work before Brendon but he doesn't mind, he just reacquaints himself with getting back into the groove of things. He remembers Patrick saying being pregnant felt like he'd removed his skin, like the world's suddenly attacking him without his armor and Pete feels a little like that, like he's not got a shell to protect himself with.

Patrick must've warned Brendon to stay away from Pete that day because apart from his usual chirpy hello, he's quiet and works out front. By eleven he's off on a location scout and leaving Pete to his own sensitive thoughts.

By two thirty Brendon's back and Pete's burning out. It's too much work after a week of nothing but laying in bed, and he sort of wants to cry from tiredness. He hears the bell clatter against the studio door, and hears Brendon greet the customer, before realizing it's just Patrick.

Patrick comes into the back without Paris, who stays with Brendon until he realizes Patrick isn't in his sight and starts screaming. Patrick closes his eyes briefly, taking a breath and disappearing for a few seconds before coming back with Paris.

“This whole screaming when he can't see me thing is getting old,” Patrick says. After a very brief cuddle he hands Paris over, who goes willingly, when he sees Patrick sit on the desk in front of him.

“He's just expressing how I feel when you leave for tour,” Pete says, swallowing thickly because he think he might actually cry. “I didn't realize you would be here.”

"We were in the area," Patrick shrugs, which is bullshit because the studio he works out of is the other side of town. He perches on the edge of Pete's desk, hands going to the back of Pete's hair, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. “I said last night that we should go to the park.”

“I like the sound of that,” Pete whispers. Paris is drooling on his lap, clutching the soft bunny Gabe bought him. He shifts his baby closer, looking up as Brendon wanders in.

“So when can I come babysit?” Brendon asks and Pete – because he's kind of a dick when it comes to Brendon – likes to picture his face when he's left with a screaming Paris because Patrick's left the room again.

“Soon,” Pete promises. Patrick's smiling down at his feet, in sync with Pete's thoughts.

They end up at a grassy park not far from their apartment, setting up beneath a large tree. Paris squirms in the stroller until Pete lifts him out. His big brown eyes focusing on Patrick, who was snapping a photo of the two of them on his phone.

“As a professional photographer, you should let me take all the photos in this relationship,” Pete jokes, lifting their baby up and kissing his cheek, letting Patrick take a shot of that.

“Shut up.” Patrick smiles behind his sunglasses. “I just wanted a photo of my two favorite dudes.” He flips the phone toward Pete, waiting on his opinion. Pete nods his approval, handing the phone back before Paris can reach out for it.

“I think I'm gonna write a really sweet song the next time I'm in the studio,” Patrick says. “I dunno, I keep getting this melody in my head and it's not like anything I normally write. I swear having a kid has turned me to mush.”

“Maybe your next album will be cutesy mush,” Pete suggests, seeing Patrick laugh. Paris squeals along, desperate to wriggle out of Pete's grip but unable to go anywhere.

“No. I'm not putting that stuff out...it can be family music,” Patrick waves a hand, like this unnerves him to think too hard about. “Personal stuff that no one else hears.”

“Like my private Patrick photography collection?” Pete wiggles an eyebrow, smirking when it gets a laugh out of Patrick.

“Yeah, only Paris is _never_ to see those. He can hear these songs. They're for him anyway,” Patrick shrugs and then rolls his eyes. “See what I mean? Why am I writing songs for some baby that doesn't understand.” Patrick shakes his head at his words before his eyes turn serious and he scoots closer. “Are you alright?”

“With you and Paris, yeah. I made Brendon deal with the clients today so I was on my own and it helped, this does too,” Pete bounces Paris, who makes a groggy noise until he stops. He starts to wriggle around, so Pete places him between the two of them, watching him squirm on his belly, trying to get to Patrick. “A little drained. Remember when you found out you were pregnant and you just slept constantly? It feels like that, like I need to sleep forever.”

“We can go home if you like,” Patrick suggests but Pete shakes his head. He wants to be out here now. He holds his hand out and Patrick takes it, rubbing his thumb over Pete’s knuckles.

 

Pete gets better at home, hanging with Patrick and Paris. He takes another week off work and spends it with his family. They take the baby up to Pete's parents and Pete has to explain to his mom that they're not getting married, even if Patrick wears what looks like an engagement ring.

“I'm the person I told myself I never wanted to be,” Patrick says when they're finally back in their own little apartment. Patrick's managed to get Paris settled in the nursery and Pete’s remembering just how good a boner feels when he has Patrick's mouth sucking at it. “I just wanted to play my music and be a success like that, but now I have that, a kid, a husband and a dog. So many people relying on me.”

“Yeah, I guess things worked out different,” Pete says, but Patrick's laughing, curling up against Pete’s arm, finger tracing against the ink.

“We should move. Let's get a house with a garden for Paris and Bowie, and let's buy him a rabbit and let's turn the third bedroom into a studio so I can work from home,” Patrick says. Pete's smiling at Patrick's demands. He's going to give into him, he always does.

“What about my work?”

“I don't mean move from the area, just somewhere larger. You can have the garage as you're workspace. Be a dad with his own room, isn't that what dudes dream of?” Patrick smiles against Pete’s shoulder, and it's enough really, that he's happy again after months of hell. Pete’s feeling stable too, it's slow progress, but he's not a wreck.

“You're gonna bitch about this till you get your way,” Pete jokes, not really upset. Patrick's stubbornness pretty much goes hand in hand with Pete's need to please him.

“Pushed a baby out for you, Pete. I deserve to have my way for the next fucking year,” Patrick says. “Remember the anemia? Remember how I needed a fucking blood transfusion? That's totally a good reason for you to buy me a house.”

“I'll buy you a fucking house,” Pete tells him, feeling Patrick laugh against his neck. “But stop using Paris as an argument piece. I'd like my way a few times in the next few years.”

“Yeah, alright.” Patrick laughs again, nodding his head. “Oh hey, I got you something," Patrick squirms from Pete's side and slides from the bed. Pete watches his naked body in appreciation, glad that Patrick's lost the shame he carried around when pregnant, that he's willing to share his nakedness with Pete again.

“You finally gonna make an honest man out of me, huh?” Pete asks when he sees Patrick come back to the bed with a box. He tosses it to Pete, sitting up next to him like an expectant puppy.

“I already consider you my husband even if I still hate the word, but maybe this will prove it to you.” Pete doesn't say anything about how Patrick doesn't need to prove it to him. The box is too large to hold a ring, but when Pete flips it open he sees a smart watch inside; silver with a black face. “Rings are boring so I got you a watch instead. I got it not long after I had Paris, but I was just waiting for the right time to give it to you. If you really want a ring I can still get you one.”

“You buy nice shit, mama Patch.” Pete feels warm with affection, his thumb tracing Patrick's bottom lip even when Patrick glares at the nickname Pete’s been passing off on him recently. He holds his wrist out for Patrick to attach the watch. He's not really a watch guy, but he's gonna have to change that up now. “You coulda said it a little more romantic though.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “You did it over mash potatoes.”

“You were happy with your potatoes. Any other time you were on the border of a tantrum,” Pete says and Patrick can't argue ever argue with truths like that. “If I was knocked up I would be too, so I don't blame you. You're exhausting, but I like that.”

“I keep you on your toes,” Patrick says, he grinds down, fingers sliding to Pete's soft cock, fingers playing with it as he starts to harden again. He's glad his brief erectile _issues_ seem to have abated. “I'm not in a huge hurry. Eventually I'll get back out on the road, but Paris is gonna be my only kid and so I actually want to be around for him. You don't have to worry about anything right now, I'll take good care of you.”

“Mmm.” Pete lifts his hips to Patrick's hand, looking down as Patrick curves his fingers around Pete's cock. “Taking good care of me now.”

“Looking after my husband... My dude. Making sure I make it up to him in every way. If you're up for it.” Patrick leans down, twisting fingers over the head of Pete's cock. Pete watches his cock ride Patrick's fingers, the dark head peeking out between his fingers.

“U-up for it, sure,” Pete says, bucking his hips into Patrick's touch. “What've you got in mind?”

Patrick looks at him curiously, one hand jacking Pete slowly, the other spread out over Pete’s firm stomach, tracing softly cut muscles. “What's your biggest fantasy for me?”

“I can only pick _one?_ ” Pete asks and Patrick laughs, leaning down to suck at Pete's neck, his hand still moving on Pete’s dick. “I always wanna know what it's like to see you with a chick. I bet you're submissive. You're mouthy with me, but I bet it's different with a woman. I bet you'd do anything they'd ask.”

Patrick laughs against Pete, a soft giggle that gives way to a moan when he feels Pete’s hands slide over his hips, squeezing lightly. “You might be right.”

“Wanna watch you eat some girl out as I fuck you from behind. Watch you do as you're told for once.” Pete dips a finger down, teasing Patrick with it, over and over, never pushing inside. Patrick sighs against him, squeezing Pete’s dick a few times. “You'd be a wet mess between us, begging us both to fuck you harder. And I would, we both would. We'd finally get you to realise who's in charge.”

“That's quite the power trip, I bet it's because you've felt so out of control recently,” Patrick says, hand clenching on Pete’s dick again as he gains composure. “Wait, who's the girl?”

“Uh, I don't know, just a girl. A pretty girl we meet one time and she really wants to fuck you...she really wants you to show her you deserve it. It's like we're trying to fuck each other through you.” Patrick shudders, lifting up suddenly, moving his hips roughly as he starts to fuck himself down onto Pete.

Patrick's clenching immediately, wet in the best kind of way, he's going to come soon, and Pete looks at him, messy hair flopped forward over his eyes, cheeks pink and flushed as he starts to grind his hips down. He rubs his thumb against Patrick's clit, in the rough circles that always drive him crazy. Patrick comes hard, dropping down to bite at the juncture of Pete’s shoulder.

Pete comes a little bit gentler, enjoying the way Patrick's still slowly moving on top of him, milking his dick and he presses their lips together. Patrick's hands cup at Pete’s cheeks, pressing their noses together softly.

“Why do you always end up getting me off when it's supposed to be about you?” Patrick asks gently, lifting up gently to let Pete's wet cock slide from his body. He settles himself over Pete again, keeping their heads together as he waits for an answer.

“The bad answer is that getting you off gets me off, but it's the honest truth,” Pete says, stroking his fingers through Patrick's hair.

“Aww,” Patrick laughs. His nose scrunches up against Pete’s before he slides down and curls up against Pete's chest. “I'm glad you're my pseudo husband and no one else.”

 

They end up having a kind of after-baby party in the apartment a month later. It more or less proves the point that they'll have to move at some point; there's too many people cluttered wall to wall, so that Pete can't even see Patrick. Bowie is sleeping grumpily in their bedroom, refusing to socialize, but Paris is propped up in Andy's arms, too tired to fuss about the fact he can't see Patrick.

Pete finds Patrick sitting on the couch eventually, wedged between one of his bandmates and Travie. He's wearing a gray flannel button-down tucked into a skirt. He looks happy with his appearance now, doesn't mind a shit load of people seeing him, doesn't mind his fans seeing him. They're trying to keep Paris' face from being shown on camera, but for the most part the fans have been receptive, happier now that Patrick's back communicating with them. From what Pete's seen, people have taken the news that Patrick's had a baby pretty well, too. It's not all roses, but it's good enough.

“I was just telling Patrick to make the most of Paris being the littlest. One day that kid's gonna shoot up and tower over him,” Travie smirks. Patrick gives him a glare, like this is terrible news. “Like, it's biologically impossible for him to be shorter than you.”

“That's bullshit. There's no way that little baby will be bigger than me," Patrick insists, before turning to look at Travie. “I'm gonna hang out with my husband, I'll be back later.”

Pete bends down to help Patrick up, fingers tightening around his wrist. “You're not to believe that,” Patrick says, his arms going over Pete's neck, leaning up to kiss him lightly. “Paris will remain a baby forever. I swear I'll kick him out the day he's bigger than me.”

"Yeah, sure," Pete laughs, looking at Patrick. He's smiling bright, cheeks red, almost likes he's drunk. Pete tucks his hands to Patrick's sides, walking him backwards until they're out of the main hub of the party. “He'll always be our baby, but just taller than you."

"Not happening." Patrick leans up, kissing Pete in the mouth again, sliding his hands to Pete's chest. “You feeling okay? Not too many people?”

_“Stop coddling me,”_ Pete imitates Patrick, how he sounded about three quarters of the time during his pregnancy. "No, its good. I'm happy. I mean, I'm worried that Paris is spending too much time with Andy today. He'll turn that kid into a vegan fitness freak, but I'm happy with us. With being here."

“Good,” Patrick says, hands lightly stroking down Pete's chest. With their friend's around Patrick doesn't care all that much about touching and kissing Pete. "I'm glad you're better than you were."

Patrick smiles at him, looking sweet and cute, hair neat and clothes warm. He carried Pete's kid, gave him this happiness even when he lost his own. Pete's been worried for the last few months that he's ruined their lives because he couldn't get over shitty little things, but Patrick stood by him. Patrick's put his own career on hold for Pete; for Paris. It's not something Pete’s going to forget anytime soon.

 

A month later though, Patrick's manager has been harassing him about getting his name back out there again. Patrick's name is never _not_ out there; he's the perfect kind of freak that the press love. They think he's weird so that automatically makes him wonderful to them. Patrick gets upset when he reads through his mentions; even if there's only three comments that border on gross and horrific, with the rest positive, it's the negative ones that get him down.

“I do want to get back out there at some point,” Patrick says to Pete when they're out for dinner one time. Andy is on Godfatherly duties and looking after their offspring whilst they get tipsy on bad wine at an expensive bar near Pete's studio. “But I thought the comments were bad enough before, but now that I've 'let the side down' by letting a man knock me up that's all it's gonna be about. I have a baby and a husband and that's all I'm going to get asked about, all people will see me as.”

“No it isn't,” Pete shakes his head. “And it's only the shitty people hiding on the internet saying that stuff about you. Most of your fans have been supportive, anyone that does say shit can't really be considered fans.”

“I don't know if that's true.” Patrick looks down at his half empty plate. “It hurts me more when people say stuff about Paris. It's why there's no fucking way we're putting him in daycare. I'm not letting ignorant people around my son, I'd rather give up music than do that.”

Pete nods, not really disagreeing with the last part. It's not like they need to put him in a daycare right now. “At the end of the day the people that really care about you and your music still want you around, they still want to hear what you've got to say.”

“So you think I should do it?” Patrick looks at him across the table, fingers drumming nervously over the edge.

“I think it's your decision, but I also don't think you should give up because a few shitty people have said a few shitty things online. I remember when I took you to Gabe's wedding and you wore that skirt, you didn't give a fuck that people stared at you or made comments behind your back. You just have to try and brush it off.”

“Okay, I'll do it,” Patrick says, as if the dilemma never existed in the first place. Pete thinks it's probably an unnecessary brave act Patrick's putting on so he doesn't point out the sudden change, just decides to go with it for now.

The tickets for Patrick's one-off gig sell out mega quickly, which has Patrick's nerves settled about people wanting to see him perform, but sets off some other shit in his mind. If Pete’s honest, whenever Patrick has a crisis, it kind of soothes his own mental health. He's getting better, glad that his setback was only minor, but helping Patrick get over his shit makes him feel really good about himself.

“Do I look alright? No one has seen me properly since before Paris. Do I look good enough to be onstage?” Patrick asks frantically. He's bleached his hair again recently, and it's weird after over a year of his natural hair, but it reminds Pete of when they first met. He's not sure if they're the same people, but that's probably a good thing.

“You're the only one that can answer that,” Pete says, he looks at Paris sitting on the floor by Patrick's feet, tiny hands reaching out for Bowie a few feet away. “Mama Patch has to answer his own question for once, huh?” Pete says when Paris turns to look at him, ignoring the filthy look Patrick gives him.

“I swear to God if he learns to call me that I will kill you.” Patrick sounds pissed, but he isn't really, and he laughed the first time Pete called him it. If it really bothered him Pete wouldn't continue, but for now it's pretty cute, and Paris hasn't picked up on it _yet_.

 

Patrick's show goes as well as Pete knew it would. He's got Paris in his arms from the side of the stage, headphones snapped over his baby's ears to block out the noise. Patrick's a little hesitant at first, though he's never been the strongest between songs. He does get more confident as the audience participates more, and soon he's laughing and joking in the ways he used to. It's like the past year hasn't happened, like he didn't give his career up for months to have a fucking baby.

Afterward, Patrick's rocking Paris to sleep in his arms, stroking the baby's cheek and talking softly in the private of his dressing room. It's a quiet comedown for him, not like how he used to be before; wanting to fuck like crazy from the adrenaline. Pete listens from the couch, his own ears buzzing from the music all night.

“You like being here, huh? Like watching me perform? Maybe if we're really nice to dad he'll let you tour with me when I go out again.” There's such a big fucking argument in that, because it's so much easier for Pete to stay in Chicago with Paris whilst Patrick's away – it's way more stable for a baby – but then again, Paris and Patrick have a bond that seems cruel to break up and Pete's worried that he won't be able to cope on his own with Paris. He loves his son, but he's not as instinctive with it as Patrick, and it is a different kind of relationship, Pete’s not jealous or upset, but he won't pretend either.

“Don't you even fucking start on that,” Pete says instead, waiting until Patrick smiles at him before he gives one back. “What about that fake contract you made me sign about only taking him out when I'm with you?”

“Uh, I was pregnant and not in the right frame of mind. Remember all the shitty things I said but totally didn't mean?” Patrick sits beside Pete, Paris asleep against his chest. Even though he's not as wiry or electric as he used to be after a gig, Pete can still see the adrenaline riding on his face. “And it's not like I want to take him and run, you can come too, you just never want to.”

“We're not having this argument now,” Pete insists, because he wants to go home. He wants to put their son to bed and make out with Patrick and just forget about the rest of it. He doesn't want to remember that Patrick has a job that takes him out of Pete's life for half the year, that he could take his son away for that amount of time too. There's the easy option of agreeing to go with Patrick too, but he's not sure he wants that either. The only time Pete's ever been stable is when he's settled in Chicago. After his recent fuck up he doesn't want to screw his chances over.

“Okay,” Patrick says with narrowed eyes, like he's only dropping the subject for Pete's sake. “We won't fight about it now, we'll bookmark it for a later date.”

“We can schedule it in for the fifth of next month, I'm off work for two days after.” Pete stands up, breaking the awkward tension as he starts to pack up Patrick's shit. “Or you know what? Maybe we should go on another vacation? After the past year and a half I think we need it.”

Patrick nods his head from the couch, smiling up at Pete as Paris shifts slighting in his arms. “We could go back to France, show Paris his namesake and explain why we called him that despite him not being conceived there.”

“No kid wants to know where they were conceived,” Pete says to Patrick, who nods in agreement. “I'm not sure I could deal with a long flight again either, especially with a baby.”

“We could go up to the lakes, then. Or I don't know, somewhere we'll all feel comfortable.” No beaches because Patrick doesn't do well on them and somewhere baby friendly for Paris. Pete doesn't want to fly at all, and he hates letting Patrick drive them anywhere because he's such a shitty driver.

“Let's just go home.” Pete walks toward Patrick, giving him a hand up from the couch and smiling at his cute little face. He wants to kiss him, wants to use his teeth. He just hopes Paris is up for a night alone in the nursery. “Let's have a vacation at home.”

“Right, okay,” Patrick says, sounding confused, but playing along. He tucks Paris into the carrier, stretching his arms out once they're no longer encumbered with a baby. “We'll go home and we'll not argue.”

“We've go home and we'll... _not_ make a baby.” Pete tries to wink at Patrick, knows he catches the meaning in the way his eyes cloud over briefly before looking away.

“You're so fucking weird,” Patrick says instead, like he's only just figuring this out. “But whatever, it's cool with me.” He smiles, and so Pete flashes one back, wondering how they got to this point, not just in the conversation, but in their lives too. It's messed up, but it's pretty cool. It's his life and he's pretty fucking excited about living it now.


End file.
